Dmitry Sheleg

Cadet Morozov

Living Ice

A Portal Progression Fantasy Series

Book Four

Magic Dome Books

in collaboration with

1C-Publishing

Son of the Morozovs

Living Ice Book 4

Copyright © Dmitry Sheleg 2025

Cover Art © Darya Loktionova-Solovykh 2025

Art Designer © Vladimir Manyukhin 2025

English translation copyright © Mikhail Yagupov 2025

Published by Magic Dome Books in collaboration with 1C-Publishing, 2025

All Rights Reserved

ISBN: 978-80-7702-048-0

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is entirely a work of fiction. Any correlation with real people or events is coincidental.

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Table of Contents:

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Epilogue

About the Author

Prologue

THE WEATHER HAD TURNED grim. A biting drizzle cut through the air, cold enough to seep into the very marrow, while a ceiling of heavy gray clouds smothered every trace of the once-blue sky. The wind hissed through the trees like a warning, and those gathered at the entrance to the Temnikov family crypt pulled their coats tighter, shivering—not just from the cold, but from the weight of what lay ahead.

It was a closed funeral—no outsiders were allowed onto the estate, save for the clergyman. Alongside the family, the mourners included off-duty mages, warriors, and servants.

The women dabbed at their tears in secret. Anna and Maria, both clad in dark clothes, cried openly. The men all stood solemnly. Even my older brother Ignatius—the black sheep, jester, and rebel that he was—didn’t look the least bit provocative today. On the contrary, his behavior was surprisingly decent—demure, even.

For a moment, I wondered if all that tomfoolery of his was just an act. But I didn’t have time to dwell on that.

I hadn’t known George as well as the others, but in the time I’d spent with him, he struck me as a good guy. Not perfect, of course—but who among us is?

So I was mourning his death sincerely. It was just plain wrong when a strong and healthy young man died in the prime of his life. And I’d be lying if I said the sharp sting of regret wasn’t also tied to the fact that some of my plans were temporarily derailed by the death of my older brother. I’d been counting on George’s help—specifically in Morshansk. Now, a lot would have to change.

After reading a prayer beside the closed casket, the representative of the Church of the Savior offered his condolences and somehow slipped away unnoticed.

Everything that needed saying had already been said. Father stood silently for a while by the black lacquered coffin, then lifted it gently with his dark aura and carried it into the family crypt. When he returned a few minutes later, he paused again at the entrance and used that same aura to slide a heavy concrete slab into place. Without a word, the head of the Temnikov family turned and walked back toward the house.

The silent procession watched him go, lingered a moment longer, and slowly followed after him.

I gave the ring on my finger another spin— the mark of a first-rank Militant. It still felt heavy and unfamiliar. I drew a deep breath, then wrapped my arms around my shivering sisters and guided them toward the house. No reason for them to be out here alone. They’d very likely catch a cold. After a shock like this, it wouldn’t be surprising.

By the time the girls and I were among the last to step into the entrance hall, we learned that Father—who’d been receiving daily updates from Diachenko about the investigation—had gone straight to his study. The mages, warriors, and servants dispersed quickly, each to their own duties, while our older brothers and Galina were waiting for us. She immediately took the tearful girls under her wing and led them away.

“Let’s go to my room,” Theodore said with a wave, and we all followed him.

In the far corner of the spacious room stood a small round table with chairs. On it were a bottle of wine, some glasses, and a spread of snacks.

“Nice touch,” I thought to myself, eyeing the dishes. “And I’m already starving. Last time I ate was early this morning.”

“Take a seat,” our host offered, quickly pouring the wine—including a glass for me. I didn’t make a show of disapproval or try to act aloof, so we raised our glasses silently and drank, honoring our dead brother.

The wine wasn’t sour at all—in fact, it was quite pleasant.

“Strange,” I thought, taking another sip. “It feels like savoring wine and snacks right now is almost blasphemous. In moments like this, grief should dull the appetite, make food and drink feel tasteless. Otherwise, it’s like mocking the memory of the one who’s gone—someone who no longer gets to enjoy even the simplest pleasures of life.”

“So, what do you think?” Theodore asked after a while, stepping into his role as the new heir and elder brother.

“What’s there to think about?” Ignatius answered, surprisingly serious, leaning back in his chair with a grimace. “We have to face the fact—someone is killing us off. One by one. First one, then another… and now, a third!”

Then he added, with even more passion in his voice, “Nocers take it all! George was the strongest of us! The strongest! I’ll say it again—very, very strong! He was ranked professor, had real combat experience, and his family gift was well-developed. You do what you want, but me? I’m not going anywhere without guards now. And I’ll be watching my back, too.”

“You really believe someone’s targeting us?” Ted frowned. “One by one? But why start with George? Wouldn’t it make more sense to take out the rest of us first, then go for him?”

“Galina was wiping away tears during the funeral,” said Ruslan, who’d been silent till then. “But she never liked George. Never even pretended to. So why cry for him? Or were those tears of joy?”

“You know something?” Ignatius perked up instantly. “Then out with it. Don’t drag your feet.”

Ruslan made a face, gathered his thoughts, and nodded. “Fine. Since you’re asking. But keep in mind—these are just my conjectures.”

Once the others gave their nods, he began.

“Remember last year, when someone poisoned me with an unknown potion?” he asked, scanning our faces. When he saw us nodding, he continued. “Not a single artifact picked up anything suspicious. Only George noticed I was acting off. He didn’t take chances and ran a purification ritual on me. That’s what showed I’d been poisoned.”

He paused, theatrically, before delivering the punchline,

“Back then, George thought it was Belova.”

Ted nodded thoughtfully. “I remember that. George confided in me—said you weren’t the only one showing symptoms. Said Father had them too, around the time the estate was attacked. That was when Grandfather and Ivan officially died.”

He turned to me with a sharp look. “You think this might be another of Father’s set-ups? Maybe he staged George’s death, like he did with you?”

“Father could do something like that,” I said, shaking my head, “but I doubt he’d try the same trick twice. When it was me, yeah, it worked—everything was in chaos, after all, and I’m not exactly heir to a princely line. But with George, it’s simpler than that.”

Before anyone else could cut in, I went on.

“Yesterday all of us were present for the ritual confirming the new heir. Everyone remembers that it pointed to Theodore. And George’s portrait? The frame cracked. That’s not a theory, it’s a sign.”

“You had a cracked frame too,” Ruslan pointed out. “And yet here you are. Perfectly alive. Healthy, even.”

“You’re forgetting they pulled George’s body out of the wreckage,” Ignatius said darkly. “Or at least the top half of it.”

He took a long swig of wine before finishing: “So quit holding on to illusions. The heir is dead. Long live the new heir! Let’s see how long he manages to survive.”

“Don’t bury me just yet,” Ted snorted. “I’m still kicking.”

“To keep kicking,” Ignatius snapped, “we need to focus on our real enemies. Instead of dreaming up ‘what ifs’ about George, you should be thinking about how to neutralize Belova.”

“We cannot be absolutely sure it’s her,” the new heir objected.

“Oh, really?” Ignatius scowled. “Then who else? Who benefits from the death of an heir who was such a powerful mage? Her, first and foremost! You should have seen how panicked she got when Father nearly lost that will duel to George.”

“And how do you know that?” Theodore asked, narrowing his eyes.

“You don’t need special training to see what’s right in front of your face,” Ignatius shot back. “Belova was scared out of her mind. She knew exactly what would happen once George became head of the family. She’d be booted from the ‘golden’ line—her and her little brats. That’s all there is to it.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Theodore said after a pause. “I don’t have enough proof yet to act, but I’ll be keeping an eye on her.”

“Yeah, do your best,” Ignatius grimaced. “I’d rather not lose another brother… or take an early trip to meet the Savior myself.”

“What about you two?” Theodore asked after a pause, glancing between Ruslan and me.

“I think we need to take our safety more seriously,” Ruslan replied, caught off guard.

“And you?” Ted turned his gaze to me.

“I think Galina really is one of the most likely suspects,” I said honestly. “Sure, there might be others with a motive to see George dead, but the fact that they all acted at the same time—right after that conflict with Father—feels extremely suspicious. And then there’s the attack on the estate…”

“What about it?” Ignatius snapped, already working on his fourth glass of wine.

“Everything about it checks out,” I replied, then gave my brothers a serious look. “But there are a few… interesting coincidences tied to Galina. During the attack, she wasn’t even on the estate. And it just so happened that right around that time—when Grandfather died—her production facilities suddenly needed urgent and expensive modernization.”

“That is suspicious,” Theodore admitted, then added, “In that case, as the eldest brother, I’m advising all of you to stay alert. If you notice anything strange—anything at all—come straight to me. Don’t be afraid of looking like idiots or panic-mongers. Better to make a mistake than end up a corpse. Like Ignatius said—none of us want to lose another brother.”

I nodded in agreement, and my thoughts drifted, unbidden, back to the day I first heard about George’s death.

Chapter 1

AFTER I MANAGED TO PROCESS the news about the helicopter crash and George’s possible death, I just froze. Not because I’d grown particularly fond of the heir to the Temnikov family during our time living together in Morshansk. It was the sheer shock of such an unpredictable event that rattled me. It changed a lot in the life I’d grown used to.

Despite the fact that there had been two serious assassination attempts on the heir—one of which I’d personally helped foil—his death still came as a surprise. Especially considering that, after all the trouble that had rained down on him, George had only become tougher. He kept improving his combat and defensive magic, beefed up his personal guard, minimized his time in public places, and—of course—grew highly suspicious of any large cargo trucks getting too close to him.

Thinking back on all that, I couldn’t understand how they’d managed to get to him.

“And seriously—he used a helicopter for the first time ever, at least since I’ve known him! First question: why? Second: where was he going? And third: how did the killers find out?”

Apparently I’d sunk so deep into my thoughts that I asked those questions out loud.

“He was flying to the capital,” Ignatius answered in a distracted voice. Then he raised his head, drilling me with a serious gaze. “For the tournament finals.”

“Demons and damnation,” I thought grimly. “Now it’s gonna turn out I’m the one to blame. After all, I was the one who’d pulled George out of his safe haven in Morshansk right into harm’s way.”

After thinking it over, I reminded myself of the impressive abilities of my brother’s protective aura—the kind that could withstand artillery or transform into enormous ghostly wings that let him soar through the air. Deciding not to bury George prematurely, I asked Ignatius,

“What do we actually know about the crash? Where did the helicopter go down? Was it another attack? Or just a mechanical failure? What condition is George in? Is he alive?”

“I’ve got no solid info yet,” my brother shook his head. “Just a rough idea of where it happened.”

After a brief silence, he added,

“Father flew there himself. Sent me to you, and Theodore’s already with Ruslan. Basically, Father asked me to tell you both to stay strong and not let this break you. Nothing’s confirmed yet. But you have to win—no matter what.”

“He thinks there may have been a plot?” I asked, latching onto that last part. “That someone believes Ruslan and I will be too shaken to fight at full strength?”

“No idea,” Ignatius shrugged, giving me a curious look. “I’m not in on your dealings with Father. But he did repeat it a couple times—you both have to win.”

I nodded.

“All right. If there’s no information, there’s no reason to panic yet. It may well be a false alarm, after all! Even if the helicopter did blow up in the air, George would have had time to put up a shield—and then use his aura wings. At least, that’s what I’m counting on… Maybe this whole thing is fake—maybe George never even took off, and he’s perfectly fine. Then again, Father wouldn’t have walked out on the tournament for no reason.”

“Ivan!” came a call from the locker room as Godimir walked in behind Ignatius, looking lost. Clearly, he’d also heard the news. “They’re calling you to the ring.”

“Alright,” I nodded and headed out decisively. “If they’re calling me, I’ve got to fight—and win. No matter the circumstances.”

“Demon guts and brimstone! This really could be part of some big complicated game,” was the first thing that flashed through my mind. “If the news of George’s death is meant to strip me of my will to win—or force me to throw the fight—then the whole setup actually makes sense. Classic psy-ops stuff. Most people probably see George as the person I’m closest to in the Temnikov family. After all, I didn’t come back to the estate after my ‘resurrection’—I chose to live with him in Morshansk. And if we add the fact that just minutes ago none other but the heir to the Nosyrian Empire had personally asked me to throw the final match, well… the situation starts looking very suspicious. People at that level don’t just go around eliminating high-ranking members of the ‘golden’ families for petty reasons. Which means the ‘fake news’ theory is gaining ground.”

Reinvigorated by those thoughts, I wished George luck and headed forward, calmer now.

Right now, my task was to win the final match. Everything else could wait.

My opponent was already waiting in the ring. The boy looked focused and dead serious. I no longer saw that spark of superiority in his eyes that he’d had in earlier matches.

Once I took my place in the ring, the gong sounded, and the boy launched into action. He rushed at me and started landing powerful kicks using Shiki-Cho with blazing speed.

“Damn, he’s good,” I thought, barely dodging the barrage. “Was he always this fast? I don’t remember… Maybe he’s juiced up on something?”

I belatedly activated Wolf Eyes and noticed that his whole body seemed to glow with spirit energy.

“They’ve pumped him full of spiritual energy, too?!” I was stunned as I sidestepped a devastating Battering Ram. “Nice prep for a final. But is this even allowed?”

I met his next attack—a massive Shiki-Cho strike—with a sidestep and a raised Shield of Will.

The shield held. I closed the distance and, grabbing him by the throat with what I had dubbed “Sith Hand,” landed several quick punches to the face.

The boy’s hastily-formed shields shattered, and my well-placed strikes knocked him out cold.

“Ladies and gentlemen! I’m pleased to announce that the winner of the martial stage of the Imperial Tournament in the junior division is Boyar Ivan Morozov! From the Imperial Academy branch in Morshansk!” the announcer declared triumphantly once the referee confirmed my opponent was down.

The celebration felt a bit muted.

As I got to the locker room entrance, I ran into our team. They looked pleased, even proud—but also confused. It was clear they were happy I’d won, but the uncertainty around my older brother kept them from fully expressing it. “Don’t take it so hard,” I said, trying to cheer them up. “George will be fine. He’s a tough guy.”

The team exchanged silent glances.

“What? You know something?” I asked, bracing for the worst.

“According to the news channels… he’s dead,” Godimir finally said quietly, standing in the hallway. “We just saw a live broadcast from the crash site on the infonet. I’m really sorry.”

“I see,” I said, stunned.

“Wasteland blazes! What the hell is going on?! Could it really be true? How?!”

Just then, Ruslan and Ted approached us.

“You holding up?” my older brother asked, gripping my shoulder firmly.

“I’m fine,” I answered in a quiet voice, then looked over at Ruslan, whose eyes were slowly but surely filling with darkness. Within seconds, a ghostly fog began to form behind him.

“Get a grip,” Theodore ordered as soon as he noticed the darkness. “It’s just the news—on the imperial channel, no less! They get things wrong all the time, you know that. And Father hasn’t confirmed anything yet. So calm down.”

“You’ll burn through all your energy like that,” I added. “And you’re going to need it soon for the final match. Besides, the news about George might be fake. Someone could benefit from us losing because we’re emotionally off balance.”

“All right,” Ruslan exhaled, calming down at last, and the haze around him slowly began to fade. “My fight’s up next, so I really do need to save my strength. They’ll be calling us out any moment now.”

“Good luck,” I told him with sincerity, and the brothers headed off toward the arena.

“When your father was informed about what happened to George, the same dark fog appeared around him—but way thicker!” Oleg said. “It nearly covered half the spectator stands.”

“I can imagine,” I gave a grim nod.

“Probably not the easiest thing, hearing news of another possible dead son—especially one who’s a magically gifted heir to the family,” I thought. “Unless it’s all a game… and the old man himself is behind what happened to George? I’ll need to think about that later…”

Back in the locker room, I slumped into an empty chair and let myself sink deep into the soft plush, watching the prep for the next match unfold.

My brother was still simmering with emotion as he stepped into the ring, so he didn’t bother to hold back. He unleashed everything he’d been bottling up.

The dark mist curling behind him seemed to froth and thicken in an instant, then surged toward his opponent with terrifying force.

The powerful combat spells he’d cast smashed through the opponent’s shields, and he scored a swift and confident victory. His opponent simply couldn’t withstand the raw might that an enraged Ruslan was throwing at him.

“Whoever was hoping we’d lose because of George’s sudden death miscalculated. The fight was boring to watch, honestly—even though we’re talking about mages here, and Ruslan’s opponent wasn’t some pushover…”

After the final mage duel, another match followed—the senior fighters battled for the top spot. Then I was invited to the arena to the sound of general applause.

“Already? Are they doing the awards now?” I wondered.

But the moment I stepped into the ring, I realized there would be no awards. And by then, it was too late.

The response to my victory on the part of the emperor and Witowt didn’t take long.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” the announcer boomed with a deep dramatic baritone. “Before your very eyes, history is being made! Today, right now, we’re witnessing an incredible event—the attempt of a thirteen-year-old boy, winner of the Imperial Tournament in the junior division, to earn the warrior rank of first-degree Militant!”

The arena erupted with thunderous applause, welcoming this unexpected continuation of the “banquet” in the form of one more fight, while I stood there thinking.

“Don’t these kinds of events only happen with the candidate’s consent—not just get announced out of the blue? What if someone just isn’t ready for that kind of a challenge?”

While I mulled it over, the man continued.

“While our champion prepares himself mentally for this daunting trial, let me briefly explain for the uninitiated how one earns the warrior rank of first-degree Militant. The candidate must not only endure four minutes of consecutive matches against four pairs of Fighter-ranked warriors, but also survive two thirty-second one-on-one sparring sessions with two Militants.”

The crowd buzzed with excitement, and I could feel the weight of countless stares—some admiring, some pensive, others concerned or outright skeptical.

“What, you mean you don’t believe in me?” I mentally addressed the stands. “That’s fine. I didn’t believe in myself at first, either. But training under Boemir’s unit changed that. I think I am ready.”

“I understand your doubts,” the announcer said, addressing the audience. “When I first heard about this trial, I, too, wondered where we’d find so many league-certified fighters. As everyone knows, the Warrior League is the only body authorized to award ranks! But thanks to the intervention of His Imperial Majesty, Izasław IV, this issue was resolved in record time—he allowed us to use the best fighters in the country, namely, the Imperial Guard!”

The hall exploded in loyal applause, ready for more of this strange spectacle. The man, pausing for effect, continued in the same pompous tone:

“By holding his own in fair combat against these elite warriors, the young noble Ivan Morozov will prove that he truly deserves the rank of Militant—a title no one will be able to dispute. We’ll all bear witness to a remarkable event.”

“A Nocer’s axe up your ass,” I thought grimly as the announcer kept talking. “I have to fight the Imperial Guard, and you think I’ve got even a chance?”

As tall, broad, close-cropped men in sleek black uniforms began filing onto the arena floor, I swore—this time in a much more creative way.

“The emperor’s bodyguards?! Are they out of their minds?! That’s a super-elite unit! Even back on Earth, rulers’ guards were always the best of the best—and that’s in a world where strength isn’t worshipped remotely like it is over here, where it’s practically a religion. Besides, the standards for those kinds of units are usually way higher than for any other force.”

Looking over at the imperial box, I caught sight of Witowt. There was a hint of a smug grin on his otherwise solemn and serious face.

“You little bastard. Enjoying this, are you? Don’t worry. Savior willing, I’ll pay you back someday. Or better yet—today. I’ll win this thing and embarrass the Imperial Guard right alongside their masters.”

While I was busy reading the smug expression of the future emperor, the first pair of fighters had already taken their places.

“This is so unfair,” I thought again, scanning my opponents—and anger started to boil inside me, hotter by the second. “First they throw me into the fray without even asking, and now they give me probably the most brutal opponents possible! Doesn’t the Emperor realize how this looks? It’s obvious they don’t want to award me the rank. That’s why they chose these opponents.”

The first pair of warriors stepped into the ring, and for the first time in years, I found myself wishing I could feel my father’s presence. I had a feeling he wouldn’t have allowed me to go through such an ordeal. But since he wasn’t here, I had to think for myself.

“I can still back out before the gong rings to signal the start of the trial. I could claim fatigue after the final or use some other excuse. The situation with George, by the way, works as a perfect excuse,” a treacherous thought flashed in my mind, but I quickly rejected it with a force of will. “Now is not the time to give up!”

The boiling anger in my heart made it impossible to accept any logical or sensible arguments from my mind. No! I wasn’t going to surrender or back down! I was going to tear them all apart on that very ring! Every last one of them! Into tiny pieces! No matter their strength or rank!

The ice block in my inner world stirred, bubbling with energy, filling my muscles with strength.

Suppressing the rage boiling in my blood, I almost missed the announcer’s question, asking if I was ready for the fight. It took me five seconds to finally process what he had said. I gave a restrained nod.

The opponents exchanged glances.

The younger one cracked a brief smile. He probably thought I was scared and would be an easy target. The other man, who was much older, stiffened.

I could feel the energy I was struggling to hold back, and the air around me dropped a few degrees. At that moment, the gong rang.

In an instant, I Spirit-Stepped behind the younger opponent and struck him hard on the back of the head. He never saw it coming and got knocked out cold at once.

The older one rushed to his comrade’s aid, but after receiving a few powerful blows that shattered his shield, he broke the distance. He was clearly very experienced and quickly realized he was now facing me one on one.

This warrior was good. He kept his distance well, occasionally trying to attack, and when he realized our strengths were nearly equal, he attempted to drain as much of my spirit energy as possible with frantic assaults during which I couldn’t land a solid hit on him.

After the gong sounded, the warrior retreated, lifting his knocked-out comrade over his shoulder, and left the ring. I wasn’t allowed to be alone for long, and another fresh pair of warriors quickly took their places.

“Thank the Savior these guys are no match for the older fighter who’s just left the ring,” I thought with relief, holding my own against the attacks from the new pair. “That guy was clearly a Militant—probably wearing a warrior’s ring for some reason. They must have put him in the first pair so the Imperial Guard wouldn’t be embarrassed fighting a kid like me. If it weren’t for the younger guy’s relaxed attitude, these two might have wiped the floor with me. I hope they all get a good thrashing from their superiors after this!”

These thoughts encouraged me, and I faced the third pair of fighters full of confidence. They fought at the level of the second pair, at comfortable speeds, but by the end of the third minute, they nearly caught me with a clever combo.

Luckily, I had worked through similar tricks in Boemir’s unit, and instinctively, I moved out of the danger zone with a Step.

In the fourth pair’s match, I had to hold back my instincts and refrain from attacking. I knew that once the Militants would enter the ring, things would get tough, and I needed to save as much energy as possible.

Unfortunately, I was right. A couple of seconds after the first Militant appeared, I took a few strong hits and started stumbling, taking Steps to move around, trying to regain my footing. But it almost didn’t help...

The first Militant was incredibly strong and somehow managed to track the points of my movement. A few times, he broke through my Will Shield and landed powerful strikes to my head.

My real advantage was that I had always fought opponents who vastly outmatched me in both strength and size. The same was true for Theophane, who didn’t hesitate to hit hard when I let my guard down. I probably owed my ability to stay on my feet to this constant practice of dealing with stronger foes. After each blow, my vision would dim, but I somehow stayed standing.

At one point, I realized I was facing a very different kind of Militant, and I had already started using the Drunken Master technique that old man Taras had taught me. I dodged his strikes, swaying and stumbling like a drunkard—constantly falling, getting up, and weaving in an odd, uncoordinated step, but always managing to avoid the furious blows of my opponent, who was pouring everything he had into his attacks.

Just as I Stepped out of the way of one of his devastating blows, I heard the gong sound again and froze in surprise.

“Did I manage it? Did I just bring down the whole Imperial Guard and the emperor’s heir? I won, despite all the trials and obstacles?!”

I looked with satisfaction at the sour angry face of my last opponent and realized it was true. I won!

However, the relief was short-lived.

A few moments later, I felt a wave of extreme fatigue. The adrenaline that had been keeping me going was starting to wear off.

My vision dimmed again, and my lungs were on fire as pain spread through my whole body. Blood was dripping from my broken nose and lips, my split brows and cheekbones. My clothes were soaked with sweat! My arms were so exhausted that I could barely lift them.

“Demon manure, seriously,” I thought bitterly. “Not that long ago, training in Boemir’s unit, I could go toe to toe with four pairs of fighters without breaking a sweat… even beat them. And now? Now I only won thanks to some skill old man Taras had taught me.”

“Ladies and gentlemen! Before your very eyes, the young boyar Ivan Morozov has earned the right to the rank of first-degree Militant…”

“You sure are something else!” Godimir exclaimed, pacing excitedly around the cot. “You took ’em down just like this! Kerblam! Ka-pow! And that first one—what a knockout! That was awesome, seriously!”

“Thanks,” I mouthed, as I felt the sting of healing salves being applied to my wounds. I was already feeling much better than right after the fight. Good thing I’d downed three potions right away.

“I didn’t even know you could use the Drunken Master style,” Theodore said with respect, standing off to the side, watching.

“Well, ‘use’ is a strong word,” I said, trying to shrug—didn’t quite manage. “Just picked up a few things. Better tell me—what’s going on with George?”

Theodore’s face darkened instantly, and Godimir stopped pacing, his cheerful expression gone.

“Was that his way of trying to distract me from bad news?” I wondered.

“They found his body under the wreckage…” my older brother said quietly. “Father checked several times… George is dead.”

Chapter 2

EMPEROR IZASŁAW IV of the Nosyrian Empire unhurriedly pushed open the wide wooden shutters, letting the crisp morning air rush onto the terrace. He inhaled deeply, then draped a soft blanket over his shoulders and settled into a familiar spot in a wicker chair.

From there, he gazed out at the sky brightening over Marigrad—the capital of his realm—and allowed his thoughts to drift through the day’s necessary plans, all while waiting for the servant tasked with brewing his morning coffee, which was truly exceptional.

He’d adhered to this ritual for years. The routine helped him ease into the day’s rhythm, watching the blue sky stretch above his beloved city. It wasn’t just a comfort—it was a moment carved out for focus, undisturbed, to savor his favorite beverage in peace.

He didn’t have to wait long. A silent shadow slipped across the terrace, followed by the rich scent of coffee that hit him like a blessing. The servant set an ornate tray on the side table to his right and vanished without a word. Izasław didn’t so much as twitch.

“What have you brought me today?” he murmured at last, intrigued. He picked up the small cup and took a delicate sip. “Crème Caramel,” he identified it on the spot, a connoisseur’s smirk playing at his lips. “Exactly what I needed this morning.”

He’d long since noticed the invigorating properties of beans grown in the first tier of the Samerkan Wasteland. That particular coffee packed a punch, fueling him with energy to face the day. More than that, it had a bouquet unlike anything else—a trait any refined coffee lover, like Izasław himself, would hold dear. And as head of state with deep pockets, he had the luxury of ignoring the absurd price tags on these exotic beans.

Soon, though, his mind drifted toward darker territory—the report on his son. His mood sank fast.

The dispatch he’d read the previous evening had shaken him. It forced him to confront something he’d long avoided—the clear failures in raising the empire’s heir. For a while, Izasław had believed he was handling that sacred task well enough. But after the incident—and the subsequent investigation—he had to admit he’d left too much to chance. Too many nannies, tutors, and teachers. Not enough father.

Still, age brought perspective. He knew now that everyone made mistakes. Even emperors. What mattered wasn’t the mistake itself, but how soon one could recognize and accept it. Only then could one begin to make it right.

He’d met countless people who, after the tiniest misstep, immediately looked for someone else to blame. Their servants, the weather, a chair out of place, fate itself… anything but themselves. He used to be that way too, back in his youth.

But making tough decisions had changed him. Gradually, he’d come to understand a fundamental truth—whatever happened in your life, it was on you. Not your father, brother, enemy, or friend. You were the person in the seat. That rule applied not just to rulers, but to bakers and cobblers, too—and indeed everyone in between.

If one grasped that truth early enough, life got a whole lot simpler.

If you saw something wrong, you fixed it. There was no point standing around cursing the world because things didn’t go your way. You had to act.

Of course, life threw challenges at everyone—including things no ordinary person could change. And sometimes, even the emperor himself was powerless.

“Take that damned old argument with Temnikov, for instance,” Izasław thought, his irritation flaring. “I was the one who had insisted on it, back then. Thought I was being clever. Slick. Not everyone can wrest a stake in a resource-rich venture out of the hands of a ‘golden-blood’ house head. Thought I’d pulled it off… but the mess came back around to bite me in my royal behind, didn’t it?”

His thoughts leapt from one unpleasant matter to another—back to his son.

There was a time when he believed child-rearing was straightforward. Be firm. Demand discipline. Surround the boy with instructors, then expect results. That was it. Raise a proper man, a worthy heir.

But when theory hit practice, all those sacred parenting doctrines collapsed like rotten timber.

It was hard to be strict when your own flesh and blood looked up at you with wide, tear-brimmed eyes, terrified of a harsh word. In those moments, one’s mind shut off and one’s heart took over. You no longer wanted to scold your offspring. You wanted to pull them close, protect them from the world’s injustice, and later—much later—maybe chide them gently.

So what if he hated math? You hated it too, once! Not every child was a prodigy. What mattered was raising a good person. The rest was insignificant rubbish.

Looking back over the years, Izasław began to realize a hard truth—he’d been a firm leader to his subordinates… but an unacceptably lenient father to his son.

Maybe the truth was simpler still—he hardly ever saw the boy. Devoting himself wholly to the affairs of a vast empire, Izasław had all but outsourced his son’s upbringing. The Empress, the handpicked tutors, the endless swarm of loyal staff—he’d left it all to them. Maybe… maybe he simply wasn’t cut out to raise a child. Not everyone was, after all.

That day, Izasław had been genuinely surprised when his son came to him with a request—namely, access to the Imperial Guard’s warriors to conduct a rank trial for the title of Militant.

According to Witowt, it was on behalf of his new friend—Ivan Morozov—who had won the junior weight class of a martial tournament. The boy wanted to spar with elite fighters to silence rumors that the now-famous combat footage showing him besting mercenaries from the League of Assassins was fake.

Izasław welcomed the bond forming between his son and a scion of one of the so-called “golden” noble houses—especially one thought long lost. His heir would need allies like that in the future, and favors granted in childhood have a way of being remembered for life. People grow jaded later. But in youth, gratitude an deeper.

It was for that reason—ensuring his son had the right kind of company—that the Emperor had arranged for Witowt to study alongside the brightest of the boyar elite.

So despite the fact that Morozov’s rise could very likely cost the Emperor a substantial fortune in the near future, Izasław had granted the request. Or rather, he had allowed it to happen.

After all, it was he who’d asked his son, ahead of a formal reception, to meet with the young prodigy of a princely line—until recently presumed dead—whose viral battle video had set half the court abuzz.

But soon after, when the Emperor reviewed the composition of the evaluation committee—comprising top-ranked Warriors and Militants—he realized something was off. Some of the fighters on the field held higher ranks than indicated by their signet rings. And there were others, lower-ranked and less skilled, within the same Guard division.

Seeing Morozov’s rising frustration—and his own son’s smug, vengeful grin—Izasław felt a jolt of realization. Witowt had played him. Worse still, he’d set him up.

To those in the know, it looked like the Emperor himself had orchestrated the whole thing as petty revenge against Prince Temnikov for an old lost wager.

But Izasław hadn’t wanted that. He’d genuinely hoped the boy would win, and had no intention of humiliating him by pitting him against warriors too strong to beat. Thankfully, Morozov proved to be no ordinary boy. To Izasław’s growing amazement, he had actually won.

No wonder he was now hailed as the strongest fighter of his generation—stronger than any peer, whether warrior or mage.

The Emperor had to scramble to smooth things over. He issued a formal statement to the effect that the legends surrounding Ivan Morozov’s strength were not the slightest bit exaggerated, and that the duel had served as a valuable demonstration of what the empire’s noble youth were capable of. The match had also cleared the boy’s name, long clouded by doubt and whispered accusations.

Later, Izasław promised himself he’d send the boy a formal certificate—a signed decree, co-authored by the head of the Warrior League and the Emperor himself, confirming his elevation to Militant, First Tier. A token like that, he thought, might warm the heart of a child far more than medals ever could.

After the tournament ended, he ordered the Internal Security Bureau to investigate the situation immediately.

The report he’d received the night before—hand-delivered by his secretary—did little to lift his spirits. It made one thing painfully clear—somewhere along the way, he had failed in raising his son.

Thankfully, the ISB was known for its brutal honesty and didn’t sugarcoat the truth. It didn’t matter who ended up looking bad in the process.

Izasław read and re-read the recorded dialogue between Witowt and Morozov, increasingly irritated. The boy had gone too far.

The ultimatum he’d delivered to Morozov had no connection to reality. It was childish and impulsive—pure adolescent bravado bolstered by a spoiled heir’s assumption that others would obey without question. And when Ivan dared to say no, it had clearly thrown Witowt off-balance. He wasn’t used to being told no.

“Still,” the Emperor mused, “credit where it’s due—Morozov’s got spine.”

He’d already shown Witowt that the world didn’t revolve around him, that people wouldn’t bend just because he was a prince or an heir. Now, Ivan had to become Witowt’s classmate—no question. And his friend Ogneyer too. The two of them together might stand a chance at fending off Witowt’s little court of sycophants.

Ideally, of course, this clash would evolve into a real friendship. But how to make that happen? That was the question. One that needed serious thought.

Despite his frustration with his son’s behavior, Izasław found himself strangely heartened by the motive behind it.

He understood why Witowt had tried to intervene. His son had seen a crisis facing his father and tried to fix it himself. He believed he could. And that, at least, was the right instinct—though the execution had left much to be desired.

But who, if not a father, could guide him back to the right path?

The root of Witowt’s actions had been the scene he’d witnessed from the imperial box—alongside ministers and princes—when a deeply unpleasant conversation broke out between Prince Temnikov and the Emperor.

The heart of the brief exchange boiled down to this—Prince Temnikov had dredged up an old imperial tournament and a bet long since buried—one that had cost his princely house a lucrative stake in a profitable company.

At the time, Izasław had been eager to gain personal control over a highly valuable resource. It hadn’t taken much to draw a wager from Prince Temnikov, who, still deep in grief after the loss of his wife, had taken heavily to drink and was recklessly indulgent.

The wager, made in front of a sizable crowd of noble witnesses, centered on a single question—could the Prince’s sons win both the magic and martial events of the imperial tournament in the same year?

George and Ignatius—rising stars at the time—had every chance of pulling it off. And so, burning with confidence, the Prince had offered no resistance when the Emperor insisted the terms be put to record.

In the end, Temnikov’s heir George triumphed in the magical trials. But Ignatius, worn down by the Emperor’s preemptive meddling, had been denied proper rest and failed to reach the finals.

Once Izasław had claimed the Temnikov stake, he forced out the smaller shareholders, poured in a substantial investment, and modernized the entire operation.

And now, years later, Temnikov—sober and sharp once more—had realized there might be a way to flip the board. No wonder he showed up at the tournament at the very last moment, documents in hand. The wording of that old wager, carefully preserved, now allowed him to claim a share of the Imperial Family’s stake if his sons emerged victorious this year.

And given that the imperial family now owned virtually the entire company—freshly infused with a massive wave of investment—the implications were downright grim.

Izasław swore silently.

“Demon guts and hellfire! What now? Hand it all back to Temnikov? My own creation? Something I’ve poured time, sweat, and personal oversight into? A facility bringing in nearly two percent of the empire’s annual revenue?! Just give it away? Unthinkable!”

If it weren’t for the “gold-blooded” nobles who’d been present during both the original wager and the recent conversation, he might have found a loophole. But too many had sided with the Prince. Those shriveled ancient corpses—heads of the most powerful houses, clinging to life through some infernal stubbornness—had chosen to back Temnikov’s legal claim. Boyars always banded together in times like this. It was their way of defending their class against imperial overreach.

Heaven forbid the ruler cast his eye on their holdings next.

“I’ve noted every name,” Izasław thought coldly. “Let them be reminded—you don’t oppose your Emperor in the open. And maybe it’s time for the ISB to take a long hard look at what’s happening in the Temnikov family. Their estate’s been under attack, their heir has risen from the dead, and now there’s another assassination attempt ending in a corpse? That’s hardly a coincidence.”

Several weeks had passed since George’s sudden and violent death. A lengthy investigation had, unfortunately, led nowhere. Plenty of evidence, a few so-called witnesses, and yet nothing tangible. Each hypothesis proposed by different expert teams had led to a dead end.

Two things, though, had caught my attention.

First: the crash had been caused by an explosion inside the cabin. Meaning a bomb had been planted in advance. And none of the clan’s many guards or mages had caught it. There was but conclusion to be made—security protocols needed to tighten, and he had to start trusting his gut more. His instincts had saved him before.

Second: after George’s death, extensive postmortem testing revealed something chilling. He had been poisoned. The report stated it plainly—he’d ingested an unknown toxin that prevented him from accessing his magic in the final moments of his life.

That alone was enough to make Izasław think twice about everything he ate. His gut instinct needed serious leveling-up.

“Vile stuff,” said Ruslan, shivering as I shared my findings with brothers gathered around the table. “We covered something like this in history classes, but I never thought the stuff still existed.”

“In a world full of powerful mages,” Theodore said in a pensive voice, “there’ll always be weapons designed to take them out. People will keep looking for ways to eliminate them quickly. Sure, such research is banned here—but our neighbors? They don’t place the same value on the Gifted. Especially if they’re foreign.”

“Oh, come on,” I said, snorting. “You’re a grown man, and you still believe in tall tales like that? I’d bet my title that similar experiments are being carried out right here in the Empire. They just don’t get publicized. The security services make sure no noble house gets too bold with such research, but what if someone’s doing it privately? And you can bet they’d be doing it carefully in such a scenario.”

“And I wouldn’t be surprised if state labs were neck-deep in even nastier stuff. Rulers love their secret facilities. After all, they’re the ones who fight the wars and play the regional chess games. Progress doesn’t stop.”

Ted gave me a curious look, nodded slowly, and murmured, “Where do you even get thoughts like that? That’s the next level of cynical.”

“I’m betting on government labs,” said Ignatius, jumping in before I could answer. “Even a ‘gold-blood’ house couldn’t afford to bankroll that kind of research. It takes years, costs a fortune, and there’s no guarantee of results.”

“What about pharmaceutical corporations?” Ruslan asked. “They’ve got sprawling empires, massive labs—surely they could be up to something?”

“Oh, they’ve got the infrastructure,” Ignatius agreed. “But they’re full of shareholders watching everything. That kind of oversight makes illegal research dangerous. One audit, and you’re toast.”

“We’re drifting off-topic,” Ted muttered after a pause. “We need a proper safety plan. I don’t want to lose anyone else.”

“What’s there to plan?” Ignatius replied, brow darkening. “We need to be on guard against everything and stop trusting protection teams to catch it all. They’re still just people. Loyal, sure, but still human. And humans slip.”

There was knock at the door.

“Prince Ivan,” said a servant, stepping in. “Prince Yegor requests your presence.”

“Thanks,” I said, checking my watch. “I’ll be there shortly.”

“Why do you bother saying ‘thank you’ to them?” Ignatius grimaced, giving me a look of haughty disapproval. “They’re just servants. They’ll do what you say whether they like you or not. So why the performance?”

“It’s a small price to pay to keep people from spitting in your soup, you know,” I replied dryly, then stood up. “I’ll go see what Father wants.”

As I made my way toward the head-of-household’s office, I turned over possibilities in my head.

Hopefully, he’s wrapped up whatever drama he was stuck in and is finally ready to authorize my trip to the Imperial Bank. The bookmaker was solid, sure enough, but the payout was huge, and I was tired of waiting. My hands were itching to start using that money. Being stuck here was the last thing I wanted now.

“I had a very interesting chat with the director of the Imperial Bank today,” Father said as I entered, eyeing me with deliberate interest. “He wanted to know when you plan to collect your winnings.”

“The sooner, the better,” I said. “You already know it’s a sizable sum, and a few of my projects could really use that investment right about now.”

“I didn’t realize the amount was that large,” he noted. “How much did you wager?”

“Fifty thousand,” I said, grinning.

“That explains it.” He nodded slowly, then added, with a faint sneer, “And these projects—are we talking about your little coding startup again? Maybe consider investing in something real for once. Physical goods. Tangible results.”

“I figure someone who’s grown his bank balance twentyfold in six months can decide for himself,” I said, frowning. But I caught the expectant look in his eyes and shifted gears. “Unless you’ve got something in mind?”

Of course he did. The moment he caught scent of the windfall, he wanted a piece.

“There are a few profitable offers on the table,” he said smoothly. “Money shouldn’t sit idle—it should work. Generate returns.”

He handed me several folders, all stuffed with documents.

“Take a look at my proposals,” he said. “If you put your winnings into shares, I’ll invest in modernizing production. Once the upgrades are done, the profits will rise—and your return will be significant.”

“I’ll take a look,” I said, although I seriously doubted the profitability of any of it. “So, when are we going to the bank? What’s the plan?”

Father glanced at the calendar on the wall, took a brief pause, then replied, “Aim for Thursday morning. That’ll give us time to handle business and be out of the bank before evening. I’ve got important matters later that day, and I’ll need time to get back.”

“Couldn’t we just take care of it at the local branch?” I asked, frowning.

“For matters like this it’s best to go through the head office. Besides, I’ve got some personal errands in the capital as well.”

Personal errands, huh? I recalled the older brothers’ conversation. Sorting out his own profits from the tournament, no doubt. That share in the aluminum mines and processing plants he’d pried from the Emperor’s jaws—no wonder Witowt had tried to rattle me and rig a loss.

“Well, if that’s all settled,” Father said a moment later, “then I’d like you to go over those documents on the desk before Thursday. That way you’ll have a clearer idea of what might actually interest you, and we can draft the agreements right away.”

I nodded, although inwardly I was fuming. What a cunning bastard. First he wants me to invest in his obsolete operations, and now he’s trying to rush me into something shady. Nothing good ever came from making deals on a deadline. That was how people missed things.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” I said evenly. “After we visit the bank… what do you think about me staying in the capital a while longer?”

“Absolutely not.” He shook his head, his expression darkening. “I’ve just buried one son. I’m not eager to bury another.”

I gave him a crooked smile. I knew exactly who’d sent the real Ivan to the afterlife.

Father caught the shift in my expression and frowned.

“You’ve already buried me once,” I said. “So that argument doesn’t really hold up.”

“You could use one of your favors,” he said after a moment. “I still owe you five, don’t I?”

“Nice,” I muttered. “So if I just want to go to the capital, it’s forbidden. But if I cash in a favor, then suddenly it’s fine? That’s not how this works. I’m going. If you’re worried about security, send Ted along with me.”

“Risk two sons instead of one?” he said, surprised.

“And why not?” I shrugged. “You think we’re going to live our whole lives holed up in this estate? Sooner or later, sons go to the capital, and daughters, to finishing school. That’s life. And frankly, I don’t know how long Ignatius can keep from running off on his own.”

“You’re right. But for now, I’d like to be cautious,” Father said. “One more check on our guards and mages—make sure none of them have suspect ties. A round of retraining. A security audit on the property and vehicles. Then I can let you go with a clean conscience.”

“That’ll take months,” I said skeptically. “And we’re going to the capital anyway, so I have to insist.”

“Fine,” he agreed faster than I expected. “But on one condition.”

“What condition?” I asked immediately, not giving him time for a dramatic pause.

“For any trip outside the capital residence, you take Theodore with you.”

So he was assigning me a minder, I thought, half amused. Of course. Expected as much. Still, it was no big deal. Ted and I got along well enough. Hopefully he wouldn’t be too much of a pain.

“Deal,” I said in a calm voice, grabbed the folders, and left the office.

I intended to let Byshkovets know to get ready for my arrival. I had no clue how much time Father would actually give me—but judging by that conversation, it’s going to be depressingly little.

Chapter 3

AT THE ENTRANCE of the Imperial Grand Boyar Bank—a thoroughly pompous building nestled just a stone’s throw from the palace—Father and I were greeted by its director: a distinguished older man in an expensive black suit, wearing a mage-professor’s ring on his finger. If not for that one accessory, I wouldn’t have guessed he was Gifted at all.

Funny, I thought. I always assumed an institution like this would be run by a brilliant financier—not a powerful mage. But hey, when in someone else’s temple, don’t criticize the altar. Maybe they didn’t allow anyone weaker to hold the reins. Or maybe he was both—a top-tier mage and a damn good administrator.

After some ceremonious bowing and a few minutes of polite small talk, Father and the director decided to continue the discussion in the banker’s office. The man gave me a measured evaluating look before we followed.

We crossed a richly furnished lobby and took a lift to the third floor, where we were ushered almost immediately into the director’s office.

The antechamber was empty, but a steaming cup of fragrant tea sat on the secretary’s desk.

“Please, gentlemen, have a seat,” the banker said as we entered, gesturing to two visitor chairs.

Once we were settled, he began.

“Prince Yegor, if you don’t mind, I’d prefer to settle the matter with young Ivan Morozov first. His situation, despite the size of the winnings, is more straightforward and shouldn’t take long.”

“As you wish,” Father replied agreeably, clearly in high spirits and quite pleased with how things were going.

“Well then, Prince Ivan,” the banker turned to me with a mild smile. “I must say, you’ve stirred quite the commotion at Marathon. I don’t recall anyone ever walking away with a haul quite like yours.”

“Not even someone from my final opponent’s house?” I asked, genuinely curious. “As far as I know, they’ve had a steady run of tournament wins. Predicting them as a finalist couldn’t have been that hard.”

“You’re absolutely right,” he said, indulging me. “But the bookmakers are well aware of such trends. That’s why the odds for anyone from that house are… shall we say, uninspiring. You, on the other hand? Total unknown. First-time participant. No one expected that kind of victory.”

“What about that infamous video?” I asked, feigning surprise. “Plenty of people saw what I can do. I wasn’t that much of a dark horse. Surely someone thought I had a shot.”

“With all due respect,” the banker chuckled “most of us—myself included, I admit—thought the video was a very convincing fake. Despite Lord Temnikov’s official statements following your… resurrection, I remember quite clearly when he came here with the late George, attempting to claim the Morozov family assets. He left empty-handed. In other words, I witnessed a carefully staged drama—one that convinced everyone you were dead. So when that video surfaced, it looked like just another plot twist engineered by the Temnikovs. But the tournament? You’ve silenced all doubters after that. Especially after the Militant trial.”

“So most people thought it was fake?” I asked, cutting to the point.

“Nearly the entire upper echelon,” the banker replied with a short laugh.

I glanced at my father. He nodded in agreement.

“Well then,” I said, smiling, “I’m glad things played out this way. Not only did I clear my name… I also made a tidy profit doing it.”

“Ah, yes—back to business,” the banker said with a chuckle. “Let’s talk numbers.”

He opened a brown leather folder in front of him, pulled out two stapled documents, and continued.

“All right, Ivan. You placed a bet of fifty thousand thalers on your own victory in the junior division of the Imperial Tournament, through the Marathon betting house. That house’s liquidity is backed by an Imperial noble house, which is why we’re involved at this level. Since you placed your bet before the tournament began, the odds were maximized—do keep that in mind. And now, after taxes, your total payout comes to…” He paused for effect, then announced it grandly:

“Three million, seven hundred and forty-two thousand, five hundred and eighty-three thalers.”

“Yes! Yes! Yes! Nailed it!” I cheered internally. That was serious money! Every one of my projects could be launched now, and I’d still have plenty left over. Maybe I ought to take a better look at Father’s proposal for modernizing that metal roofing plant… It was actually a promising direction. I’d been too quick to dismiss it. It was time to negotiate for a proper share of the stocks and a say in the investments.

“Sign at the bottom of each page,” the banker said, offering me the folder and a fancy pen. “There are two copies—one for you, one for our records.”

I took my time reading through the nearly identical documents, checked everything twice, then signed and handed back the second copy.

“The folder and the pen are gifts,” the banker said, raising his hands with a smile. “A small keepsake.”

“Thanks,” I said, genuinely pleased. I tucked the expensive monogrammed folder under my arm and slipped the pen into my breast pocket.

First thing I was going to do when we got out of here would be get Father to sweep this thing for bugs. Gods know what nasty tricks could be hiding in gifts like these.

“Well then,” the banker continued, turning to Father, “let’s move on to your matters, Prince Yegor. But first…”

He pressed a button on the intercom. “Maria, please escort Master Morozov to the guest room.”

So the secretary had been here the whole time? I raised an eyebrow toward the door.

It opened quietly, and in walked a striking tall woman in high heels. Her black skirt and crisp white blouse—with just enough neckline to provoke comment—accentuated a certain polished allure. Silky platinum-colored hair spilled over her shoulders, but the expression in her eyes was sharp, calculating, and observant.

“Please follow me,” she said in a smooth velvety voice, then glided out of the room ahead of me.

I caught a flicker of smug satisfaction in the banker’s eyes and nearly laughed.

Well, now. Looks like the old man still got game if he’s hiring assistants like that. And the girl’s no fool. She knows exactly what her assets are worth, and she’s not giving anything away for free. Smart move, actually—playing the part while keeping her cards close. I could absolutely respect that.

The guest room turned out to be a small but comfortable lounge near the office, with a few couches, armchairs, and coffee tables. I picked a chair near a table, settled in, and got ready to wait.

I wondered how long Father would be and how the negotiations were going behind that heavily soundproofed wall. One thing was clear—there was no way the Emperor would casually walk away from a venture he’d poured so much time and money into. No, he’d bargain. He’d haggle.

“Would you like some tea or juice?” the secretary asked a few minutes later, gliding into the room.

“What kind of juice?” I perked up immediately—call it self-preservation. If there’s one place in the Empire where you most likely won’t get poisoned, it’s the main stronghold of its banking system.

“We have apple, orange, peach, and cherry,” she said.

“Peach, then,” I decided. And the moment she turned her back, I pulled a portable toxin scanner from my pocket.

The Savior protects the cautious.

Not wanting to waste time while I waited, I took out my phone and opened the Notes app. I started drafting a checklist—points to bring up when reviewing Byshkovets’ projects.

After a few revisions, I went over my arguments, anticipating the flow of conversation with Andrei and his lead developers. This meeting would be pivotal—not just for launching the first projects based on my memories from Earth, but also for shaping how these people saw me going forward.

By the time I finished organizing my thoughts and glanced at my watch, a full hour and a half had passed.

Did they fall asleep in there?! I had a crucial meeting soon! I needed to get moving! Hell’s bells!

Another half-hour ticked by with no sign of Father. I finally called Byshkovets and told him I’d ring again just before heading to the company.

Would be fascinating to eavesdrop on their haggling, I thought, eyeing the thick wall behind which the director’s office lay hidden.

Father finally emerged forty minutes later, right after I’d drained a third glass of juice.

He gave a curt farewell to the ever-smiling banker and his secretary, then climbed into the car and told the driver, “Home.”

“Scan the folder and the pen,” I said without preamble. “I want to be sure they’re not bugged or tagged.”

“This is the Imperial Bank,” Prince Temnikov replied, giving me a mildly reproachful look. “They don’t play those games. Their reputation’s rock solid. A scandal like that would destroy them.”

“So you’re absolutely sure those things are clean as a newborn’s soul and don’t need checking?” I asked, unconvinced.

“Absolutely,” he chuckled—but he still took the leather folder and ran a hand over it, just to be sure.

His mood had shifted back toward normal, so I decided to ask.

“How’d the negotiations go? You looked pretty grim walking out.”

“Tense,” he said, setting the folder aside and fiddling with the gift pen. “I knew Izasław wouldn’t be keen on surrendering one hundred percent of the company’s shares. I figured he’d offer me back the stake I lost, plus the portion he held at the time of the wager. That’s exactly what he did. Most of the negotiation centered around those two points.”

“I knew I’d have to make some concessions,” he went on, “so I’m not upset by the result. But I had to act displeased. Otherwise that sly old weasel—the one everyone calls the head of the Imperial Bank—would have squeezed even more out of me.”

“So, how much did you end up with?” I asked.

“Forty-seven percent. I had twenty-two before, and the Emperor held twenty-five.”

“Forty-seven, huh?” I mused. “Well, how about selling me those extra seven percent? Think about it—‘forty’ has a nice ring to it. Clean. Whole. And the seven? Just a pesky little scrap.”

“It would be monumentally stupid to sell shares in a hyper-profitable company,” Father replied. “Besides, your tournament winnings are nothing compared to what those seven percent are worth. Better you invest in the businesses I offered. Lower buy-in, high return. Have you made up your mind yet?”

“Almost,” I admitted. “I just need a bit more time to calculate risk and figure out how much capital I’m willing to commit.”

“You know,” he said suddenly, “sometimes I look at you and think you’re much older than your age. Theophane was far too strict in raising you. Made you grow up too fast. Although, truth be told, I helped push that along with my own actions.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that. So I stayed quiet.

“I’m no saint,” he went on. “I’ve done a lot of wrong in my time. I won’t pretend otherwise. But that one thing—what I did to you—I do regret. I just wanted you to know that.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said. And after that, we rode in silence all the way back to the capital residence.

“How’d it go?” Theodore asked as we stepped inside.

“It was a success,” Father replied. Then, glancing at his watch: “I’ve got some errands to run. Ivan can fill you in.”

While eating a light second breakfast in the dining room, I quickly gave Ted a rundown of our trip’s outcome—leaving out the personal confessions from Father, of course.

Then, after checking that Theodore was ready to tag along, I called Byshkovets.

“We’ll be there in about forty minutes,” I told him. “Maybe a bit earlier.”

“Perfect,” Andrei replied. I could hear him glance at a watch. “I’ll have everyone gathered in the conference room by then.”

“You’re not planning on following me everywhere, are you?” I asked casually as we rode toward the business center.

“Oh please,” Ted snorted. “You think I volunteered for this? I only agreed to babysit you because I was this close to losing my mind at the estate. Even Ignatius tried to swap places with me when he heard he might get a trip to the capital. But Father sniffed that out right away. Knew full well Ignatius would ditch you at the first opportunity.”

“‘Babysit’ sounds kinda offensive,” I said, wrinkling my nose. “And thanks for admitting you’re only here for selfish reasons. Much appreciated.”

“Wasn’t exactly hiding it,” Theodore grinned. “But you know I’m more responsible than Ignatius. And I’m not going anywhere until I’m sure you’ve got things under control.”

“What could possibly go wrong?” I said, feigning outrage. “I’ve got everything handled. You’re just here as backup security and a mild supervisory presence—call it whatever makes you feel useful.”

As well as casual surveillance, I added mentally.

Still, I chose not to say it aloud. No need to offend Ted unnecessarily.

At that moment, the car pulled up in front of the business center I already knew well. I activated my Will Shield and said,

“Nikolai comes with me. The rest of you stay here.”

“What do you need him for?” Ted asked, puzzled, glancing sideways at the young mage who’d been my regular companion in the capital. “Or do you think my magical strength isn’t enough to protect you if something happens?”

“George was much more gifted,” I pointed out fairly. “And he still died. But that’s not even the point. Right now, Nikolai’s main role isn’t protection—it’s strictly representative.”

“Representative?” Theodore repeated, clearly not getting it.

“Exactly,” I said again. “He’s there to remind everyone around me who I am. So that when the company employees see a boy, they don’t forget his social status—or his right to give orders.”

“That’s actually smart,” my brother said, casting a more approving look at Nikolai. Then he laughed. “But damn, you’re cold! So people don’t forget the boy has the right to give orders? Ha! You really think that’ll work?”

“What else am I supposed to do?” I shrugged. “I’m what, five foot nothing? I look ridiculously young, and everyone assumes I have zero life experience. But I’ve got ambition and money—and that’s enough to make people wary. Especially anyone older. Say, over forty. It’s not going to be easy.”

“Well, in that case… why bother?” Ted asked. “Just forget it—enjoy life for a while. Once you’re older and know what you want out of life, then you can start working for real. It’ll be a hundred times easier.”

“I already know what I want out of life,” I said. “And you’re forgetting that in just a few years I’ll be fully independent— no longer under my father’s support. I’ll have to lead the family and figure out how to rebuild it. That means not just choosing the right noble bride, but being able to support the house in style. As a prince, I should at least be on track to match my father’s capital, even if I’m not there yet. In a couple of decades I should be somewhere near the Temnikovs’ level. What kind of joke is a ‘golden’ noble house if it’s broke?”

“You’re being too dramatic,” Theodore frowned. “Everyone knows how hard things have been for the Morozovs. No one’s going to blame you.”

“Are you sure?” I gave him a skeptical look. “Then you have too much faith in people. There’ll definitely be those who scoff and ask, ‘What kind of pathetic noble house is that? Why are they so poor? What’s the head of the house even doing—just sitting on his hands? Why doesn’t he personally handle business and start generating some capital if he can’t manage his companies properly?’”

“Maybe you’re right. I hadn’t looked at it that way,” my brother said after a moment. “But I still think you’re being a bit grim about it. Things aren’t that bad. And you do have a solid windfall you can invest.”

“True,” I agreed. “The foundation’s there. Now I just need to manage the funds wisely.”

“And you really think all this…” Theodore wiggled his fingers, mimicking someone typing furiously on a keyboard. “Is going to make serious money?”

“That depends on how we handle it,” I admitted. “There are definitely some promising projects that could interest clients long-term. We’ve got to try. Anything beats just staying idle.”

“You’ve got me intrigued,” he said. “Let’s see what you’ve cooked up.”

“Don’t expect any fireworks or anything,” I warned. “We’re just checking the readiness of one project today.”

“Because the second—and far more important one—will be launched without your involvement,” I added silently.

Everything was ready when we arrived—just as Byshkovets had promised.

Andrei and five men—probably department heads—were seated around a long table in the conference room and greeted us with curious stares.

Despite clearly being informed about my age and my role in the talks, their attention was still focused entirely on Theodore. That didn’t do much for my mood.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” I said briskly, adding a bit of “chill” to my voice. The men, who’d been slowly rising, suddenly stood at full attention, their expressions sharpening instantly.

“My name is Ivan Morozov,” I said, layering a bit more chill with each word. “As of recently, I’m Andrei’s partner, and I intend to invest significantly in this company and become its senior partner. Today, it’s up to you whether I’ll move forward with that or not.”

Byshkovets was the first to react. He quickly introduced the others, explained why they were gathered, and suggested we begin the presentation.

“All right,” I said curtly, then softened my tone. “Ah, yes. Please, be seated.”

Theodore, standing beside me, gave a barely audible snort, while the developers settled into their chairs—everyone except the man at the far end, who stood and walked over to the four LCD screens fused into a single display at the head of the table.

“I don’t like that cross where the screens meet,” I thought to myself. A multimedia projector would’ve been better.

While my inner critic was picking apart the setup, the man had already launched the presentation software and picked up the pointer.

“Good afternoon. My name is Oleg Makarov. I head the social media development department. Today, I’ll be presenting a dating site designed by our team.”

He clicked the remote, and the homepage of the site appeared onscreen.

In the center was an image of an attractive young couple looking into each other’s eyes, with colorful hearts fluttering between them. Above it: “Username” and “Password.” Below, a blue-highlighted “Register” button.

The next slide showed the registration page and the fields required for signing up. Then came the user profile layout, photo album setup, and personal journals.

“How does the search function work?” I asked, spotting a magnifying glass icon in the top right corner.

Makarov clicked through a few slides until he found the one he wanted.

“Okay, live user search button—check,” I thought, nodding in satisfaction. Age brackets, biometric filters, all present. Great. Everything essential was here. But they didn’t think to include geopositioning-based search. Not even on their radar. Perfect. We could add that later, and the client would see we were actively improving the product.

After a while, I cut in to ask whether there was a working prototype.

They quickly set up a laptop for me, and I dove into the project myself.

“A dating site? You’re serious?” Ted finally leaned in and muttered under his breath.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” I shrugged. “There are only two national social networks in the entire Empire—not counting local city bulletin boards. And that’s it. People have no real alternatives. I figured I’d lend a hand. No one’s done this yet. That makes it a success waiting to happen.”

“And what exactly are you planning to make money on?” he asked skeptically.

“Nothing at first,” I said. “But in a year or so, once we’ve got a critical user base, I’ll start integrating ads into the app. Then I’ll give wealthy users the option to pay for visibility—to stay at the top of the search rankings. I’ll also launch a premium version of the app with enhanced search tools and other little perks.”

A few minutes later, I nodded in satisfaction and said aloud, “I’m pleased with your work.”

I caught Byshkovets exhale quietly and couldn’t help but chuckle to myself. My internal monologue was along the lines of,

“That’s right, breathe easy. You probably thought I’d start tearing through your project with my ‘little princeling hands,’ micromanaging everything until your team’s work turned into a pile of nonsense. But I’m not that childish. I knew what I was looking for—a ready-built team of pros so I wouldn’t have to drown in the grind myself. I set the vision. You deliver the results.”

“Oleg,” I said, turning to the head developer, “what do we need to launch this thing successfully?”

“Uh…” he blinked, caught off guard. “Well, we’ve got the site. We just need to decide where to host the servers.”

“That’s it?” I raised an eyebrow.

“That’s it,” he nodded, a bit unsure of himself now.

“Wait, is he the project lead? Or just the site lead?” I asked Byshkovets.

“Oleg handles the site only. Someone else is managing the rest.”

“All right. Then no issue,” I said, and turned to Andrei. “Let’s take a short break, then go over the real meat and potatoes—investments, server purchase, office rental, and all the other admin stuff. You know the drill. Have your numbers ready.”

“Already prepared,” Andrei nodded. “Let’s head to my office.”

As we left the conference room, Ted leaned in and said, “That’s it? One project? After all your big talk, I expected more.”

“You ever hear the saying about the guy who’d challenged the mountain and got buried in the avalanche?” I asked.

Theodore shook his head.

“Well, now you have,” I said with a smirk. “I’m not trying to burn out juggling ten things at once. Better to start with one and build from there.”

Of course, the second project was already finished—but he didn’t need to know that.

Chapter 4

“IVAN’S BACK!” I heard the chorus of my sisters—immediately followed by them throwing themselves at me in a flurry of hugs and giggles.

“Hey! What’s going on?!” I stumbled back, caught off guard, before hugging them back with a laugh. “I mean, I’m happy to see you too, but this level of emotional overload—what’s the occasion?”

“Oh really, ‘what’s the occasion,’ you say? Now I’m jealous of all this sisterly affection,” Theodore said, stepping in behind me with a smirk. “Why don’t I ever get tackled like that?”

“Teddy!” The girls unlatched from me and swarmed our older brother in seconds.

“What’s happening here?” he asked, mock-confused.

“Boredom!” Anna frowned, stomped a foot for emphasis, and then shifted into a full-blown rant.

“You two just up and ran off to the capital without a word! Ruslan’s locked himself up in the library, studying for his exams—he won’t ever come out, and he ignores all our questions! Ignatius smuggled a crate of wine into his room, barricaded the door, and now he spends his days drinking and playing those weird video games! Father’s always gone—off on business or something. Can’t get a hold of him. And Galina? We haven’t seen her since the funeral! And to top it all off—they’re not letting us go anywhere! Not even into town! So yes! We’re extremely BORED!”

That last word came in loud and synchronized, and I had to admit—it was kind of impressive.

“All right, all right, calm down,” Theodore said, raising his hands in surrender. “I get it. It’s a crisis. But not quite of apocalyptic proportions yet. Now that Ivan and I are back, he’ll be more than happy to spend some quality time with you—watch some movies, catch up on the news, maybe tell you all about his big tournament win, and what he’s been doing all week in Marigrad. He’s practically a full-on businessman now! Took control of a company, made some serious purchases, even got into a little competition drama! You’re in for a treat.”

As he spoke, Theodore slowly drifted toward the stairs and added, after a theatrical pause,

“And I’m going to see if I can drag Ignatius out of his wine-fueled fog. Hopefully before he finishes the whole crate.”

Yeah, right, I thought. “Drag him out,” huh? More like “join him.” He just didn’t want to get stuck babysitting, and this was his best excuse.

“Oh, and Ivan,” Theodore called out over his shoulder, his voice now mock-stern, “don’t even think about dodging your sisters. That would be disgraceful. After all, while you had the freedom to roam the capital, they’ve been stuck here, going stir-crazy.”

So that’s how it was, I mused. That line about “freedom to roam” was a subtle jab—he’d only spent a day in the capital before vanishing, and now he was pretending to have been my loyal bodyguard the whole time. Sure. But whatever. After the kind of week I’d just had, and the very expensive favor Theodore did pull off… I was willing to let that slide.

It needed to be said that “eventful” barely started to describe that week. Every day was packed, mostly because I had far too much to do in far too little time.

I could have left it all to Byshkovets—let him make the big calls while I played the aloof investor. But no. It was way too early for that. I needed Andrei to see that I brought value and that I was someone to consult, not sideline. Because the last thing I wanted to hear in a couple of years was, “I handle everything myself. What do I need you for?”

I wasn’t naïve. People forgot favors the moment they felt secure. And the same man who was drowning in problems just weeks ago could easily start resenting my profits and telling himself I didn’t earn them. Such things never end well.

So I plunged in headfirst—because I needed someone to manage at least a few of my projects, and I wanted that someone to be him.

The truth was, I knew time was running out. Father would be calling us back to the estate soon. So I crammed everything I could into that one week.

To his credit, Ted had given it his best shot. He did his big-brother duty, watching me like a hawk… for about four hours. Then he tapped out and slipped away without a word—very typical for him.

After the presentation, Byshkovets and I finalized the internal restructuring. Per our agreement, he kept twenty-five percent of the company. The rest went to me.

Sure, that might seem a little unfair to the founder. But we had to be real—I’d invested a hefty sum, and the value had already started climbing just because my family name was now on the ledger. I was a “golden” house heir who’d pulled Andrei out of deep trouble. Honestly, I could have asked for even more.

Still, my conscience—that infernally awkward thing—hadn’t completely withered yet. That was my biggest weakness.

This world doesn’t have time for soft hearts and sentiment. It eats people like that alive. But I comforted myself with the knowledge that what I’d done was just good strategy—keep your partner motivated, give them a reason to push hard, and watch your profits rise.

And rise they did.

After word got out that the Morozovs had taken a major stake in the company, orders shot up by fifty percent—and that was just the beginning. I had a feeling we were only getting started.

Andrei wasn’t slacking, either. He was rehiring the employees that had been laid off during the crisis and bringing in fresh talent at speed.

Sure, his share had shrunk, but his income was climbing month by month. Because in this game, it wasn’t just about volume—it was also about quality clients. And, more importantly, about clients who could pay.

That same day, we moved fast and set up two subsidiaries. I had to admit that the team of lawyers Theodore had put together for the Morozov family—right before the final round of the Imperial Tournament—was airtight. Real professionals. No red tape could slow them down.

One of the new companies would handle my personal ventures—like the social network project—and offer related services in that space.

The second company would focus on my most important project. I genuinely believed that I might one day become a very wealthy man—unless I broke my neck in the process, of course.

I’d instructed Byshkovets to handle the entire thing in absolute secrecy. Every employee involved was made to sign an NDA. Naturally, Andrei had been confused when I handed him the technical brief—he couldn’t quite understand what warranted so much cloak-and-dagger.

From his point of view, the project was promising—and potentially very profitable if it reached full capacity—but it hardly seemed like the kind of thing you’d guard like state secrets.

So naïve. Many folks had found themselves playing a starring role in an unsolved case over much smaller things.

To be fair, I was still the only person with the full picture.

After I transferred the funds, an ecstatic Byshkovets swore he’d do everything in his power not to let me down. Understandable—if we pulled this off, his little company would soon become a medium-sized enterprise, and, eventually, a major player. Big money was on the table. Of course he was going to squeeze the opportunity for everything it was worth. And why wouldn’t he? He was young, healthy, full of drive, and the work had lit a fire in him. Just what one needed to get things off the ground.

Proof of his commitment came almost immediately. He handed me a report detailing his plans to expand the workforce.

“You’re planning a relocation?” I asked, scanning the numbers. “I thought you said they were happy to give us a couple more floors in this building?”

“They are,” Andrei nodded, “but I plan to fill those with staff from our primary company. We’re growing fast. New clients show up practically every day, and that means the core team’s only going to keep growing. The new projects—your projects—will be handled elsewhere. I’ve found a site on Marchlewski Avenue where we can rent two floors real cheap. Ideally, I’d like to buy them outright.”

“Wait, seriously? Buy them? Cheap?” I raised a brow. I’d done my homework on the capital’s real estate market—it wasn’t for the faint of wallet. “Why would anyone sell prime space in Marigrad for a song? That neighborhood’s always tight on vacancies.”

“Same reasons as us,” Byshkovets said matter-of-factly. “Some trouble broke out with one of the boyar families. Spooked the weak-willed into packing up and leaving.”

So that was why there was suddenly all this office space floating around, I thought, cracking a wry grin. Wouldn’t be surprised if Andrei gave a little… push to the more stubborn tenants, too.

“There’s a business center on Marchlewski Avenue that one of the ‘bronze’ families has been trying to buy up for next to nothing. Been six months now.”

“And how do you know that?” I asked. “Can’t imagine they’re advertising it.”

“They’re not,” he said with a chuckle. “But a former classmate told me. He worked for one of our competitors and had to leave when the company downsized and moved out.”

Apparently, those “unpleasant incidents” had involved battles between unidentified mages both near and inside the building. Worst of it had hit the glass façade, and repairs had cost a small fortune.

“So… you’re proposing we move into a war zone?” I said. “Even if it’s cheap, that doesn’t exactly scream ‘safe.’”

“That’s just it!” Andrei lit up. “It’s not a war zone. The structure’s fine. The attacks only hit the façade—load-bearing walls were untouched. It’s already been patched up. And if we act fast, we might get it for a ridiculous discount. Worst case, we lease a couple floors.”

Estimating the cost of even a discounted capital business center, I was a little shocked by his optimism.

Did he think I had cash pouring out of my ears? Or was this the kind of 'strategic spending' speech every CEO eventually learned to give? “Look at all the money we’ll save long-term!” “Imagine owning the building!” Sure. And if we don’t fill the whole thing, we’ll rent out the extra space. Right.

“Instead of sitting here and talking it to death,” I said, “why don’t we go see it in person? Check the building, the damage, meet the owner, talk pricing. I assume you’ve already pulled together the relevant data?”

“Do you doubt me?” Andrei said, grinning as he pulled a thick folder from his desk. “It’s all in here—owner info, details on the bronze family trying to buy the place, and why the insurance company’s been dragging its feet.”

“Insurance!” I snapped my fingers. “That’s what’s been bugging me. Why hasn’t the owner been reimbursed? Why is he having to pay out of pocket just to slap glass back on the walls and hold on to his last few tenants?”

“Typical stuff—interference of a certain boyar family, bureaucratic stall tactics, legal loopholes. Enough red tape to wrap around the building twice,” Andrei said.

When we finally pulled up outside the ten-story building, I narrowed my eyes.

“This place looks like it costs a fortune.”

“That’s because it looks great,” Andrei replied. “And you’d assume the owner’s doing fine. But he’s almost bankrupt—that’s the key factor.”

The young man who greeted us looked exhausted. When Andrei explained why we were here, the guy straightened up with visible effort.

“You’re only looking to buy three floors?” he asked, sizing Andrei up.

“Yes,” Andrei replied curtly—I’d let him lead the negotiation.

The owner clearly wasn’t sure what to make of the teenager standing beside his potential buyer, but to his credit, he didn’t let it show. His eyes were heavy with worries that had nothing to do with me.

“Two hundred and fifty thousand thalers,” he said suddenly. “That’s my offer for the whole thing. Take it or leave it.”

Two hundred and fifty thousand? For this? That was a third of its market value! My eyes widened—but I added some of my “cold” into my voice as I stepped forward.

“What’s the catch?”

The businessman actually flinched, startled by the sharpness in my voice.

“Excuse me?” he asked, turning to me and nervously adjusting his tie.

“What’s the catch?” I repeated. “Why is your business center so cheap?”

“I… I beg your pardon,” he said, hand dropping from his collar. Then, with more composure, “Forgive me. I must have gotten distracted. I didn’t catch your name.”

“My name is Ivan Morozov,” I said very quietly, inclining my head just slightly. “Heir of a golden house. Co-owner of Information Technologies.”

After founding those two subsidiaries, we were officially turning into a small but serious holding.

The next moment, I saw recognition flash across the man's face—he’d definitely watched the Imperial Tournament coverage. My face had been all over the broadcasts, especially after the finals and being awarded the Militant rank.

“You see, your highness,” the owner began, now choosing his words carefully, “some individuals have spent the past few months trying to force me to sell this business center for a pittance. Fifty thousand thalers. Fifty! It’s not just unacceptable—it’s insulting. Well, after I refused, they started wrecking the façade. Again and again. Bleeding me for repair costs and interfering with my insurance claims. You must understand—if the building loses its sense of safety, tenants walk. And if they walk, I lose income. I lose my most valuable clients. By law, the insurance company should reimburse me for the repairs, but thanks to these… pests, I haven’t received a single coin for the first incident, let alone the other four. So yeah—those bastards got what they wanted. They drove everyone out. Now I’ve got no profits, no reserves. Just a pile of utilities debt. I’m bankrupt.”

“Then why stall so long?” I asked, genuinely puzzled. “You could have sold to them and saved at least something. Or just listed the property and been done with it.”

He dropped his head. “Pride. That’s what did it. This wasn’t the first attempt to steal what I’d built, and every time before, I came out on top. But this time… they came hard and fast, and I didn’t act in time.”

After a pause, he added bitterly:

“But I’m still not giving those bastards the satisfaction. If you won’t buy the center, I’ll sign it over to the Empire directly. I’ll take the loss—but they won’t get what they want.”

“Who’s behind this?” I asked, just to confirm what I already suspected.

“The Vanilov family,” he spat, then launched into a detailed monologue about the hellish past six months.

Well, well. Looked like Byshkovets had been spot on with his info. Amazing what a few motivated private investigators could dig up for a reasonable fee.

“Mr. Byshkovets,” I said, turning to Andrei, “call the lawyers. I think we’re ready to draft the deal. Let’s move quickly—before anyone has a chance to interfere. Oh, and let’s not buy the building.”

“You want to buy the company that owns it,” he said, instantly catching my drift. “So we can jog the insurance company’s memory about those unpaid claims.”

The building owner’s face lit up with a predator’s grin.

“Do you plan to talk to them,” he asked, “or take it to court?”

“Time will tell,” I said, drifting into thought and mentally rubbing my hands together.

If this worked, the insurance payout and legal leverage would cover half the purchase price. Maybe more.

“What if the Vanilovs try to escalate?” Andrei asked, a little concerned. “I’m sure they have people inside the insurance company… and I saw some shady-looking cars parked near the building.”

“We’ll handle it,” I said confidently. “I don’t think they want to tangle with a golden house over a real estate spat.”

And if they did, I had a favor to cash in from Father.

Over the following days, we closed the deal, bought top-tier servers, secured assets, moved into the new building, and restructured both our existing and incoming departments.

And finally, I dove into the project that had started this entire endeavor.

“What’s the latest on the Vanilovs?” I asked Byshkovets as the elevator carried us up to the dev team’s floor.

“Quiet,” he shrugged. “Real quiet. Either they’re stunned by how bold we were, or they’re not paying attention—in which case, the surprise will be spectacular.”

“Stunned, more likely,” I muttered. “I’d bet they’re still deciding if this is worth pushing back on.”

The lead on the project turned out to be someone I’d seen during the social network presentation. Must’ve been one of the devs Andrei had invited that day to show them how these events were run.

Good call on his part. When we walked in, the laptops were already up and running, site fully live. The project lead was prepared.

“I don’t think we need a presentation,” he said. “The interface will speak for itself. Just try it.”

I nodded.

“All right then,” he continued, clearly energized. “Our classifieds platform is called Kufar.”

“Why that name?” I asked.

“Because kufar was the name of those old chest-style trunks used in place of closets centuries ago. Makes sense, right? The name’s short, intuitive, and anyone in the Empire will understand it.”

“I’ll take it,” I nodded. “Let’s see what else you’ve got.”

The homepage was sleek and clean. First thing that popped out was the logo—a neatly carved white chest on a red circle, with Kufar spelled underneath in large bold letters.

To the right were a few navigation buttons for categories—Real Estate, Vehicles and so on. Next came a long search bar and a note about the user’s current location—Marigrad, in our case. Furthest to the right was the Log In button.

“When a user logs in,” the developer said, following my gaze, “their name will appear here in place of the login button.”

Below that, the homepage featured popup ad windows, followed by the latest regional listings and slots showcasing real estate and top-ranked posts.

At the bottom were the usual links: About Us, Contact, Business Inquiries, Terms of Service, and Public Offer Agreement.

I clicked through the site, page by page, until I reached the Real Estate section. There, the interface offered a clean selection panel—Buy, Sell, or Rent. A control panel on the side allowed users to input specific parameters such as type, price, and size, narrowing the listings accordingly.

The Vehicles section worked in a similar fashion. I couldn’t resist poking around to see what filters they’d built in.

What I saw impressed me. The team had nailed the spec. Sadly, it was still just a test server, so actual pricing data wasn’t available yet.

The biggest section by far was Categories. It had everything—users could list just about anything for sale. From high-end electronics and appliances to secondhand towels that had somehow maintained their dignity.

Basically, I was staring at a clean, local-market clone of what was known as Craigslist in my old world.

“I’d suggest we add a job listings feature right here,” the developer said, pointing to the open space next to the search bar. “It wasn’t in the brief, but the team’s started working on it anyway. It feels like a natural fit.”

“I agree,” I said, genuinely pleased by their initiative. “Job offers are a great idea. And while we’re at it, let’s add a Services section. That way users can find a good builder, plumber, electrician, chef, party entertainer, a wedding emcee, or whomever. You get the idea?”

The man nodded and quickly began scribbling something down.

“How are we doing with the map of the Empire?” I asked.

“It’s the latest version,” he assured me. “It’s got all major cities, district centers, and even the smallest villages. Every single one.”

Without waiting, I typed “Rudnya” into the search bar. The site brought up a familiar speck of a village.

I’d fought off three older boys there when I was ten.

Back then, I’d had this childish fantasy that, after what happened at the estate, I could just vanish into some backwater corner of the Empire and live out my life in peace.

Hard to believe that was so recent. It felt like another lifetime. I’d changed more than I’d ever thought possible…

“Your Highness?” Byshkovets’s voice brought me back.

When it was just the two of us, we dropped the formality—but around others, it always had to be prim and proper.

“Sorry, I was miles away,” I said.

“How do you feel about the project’s status?”

“I’m impressed,” I said. “Once the hardware’s installed, go ahead and launch. And make sure there’s space for one more category beside Jobs and Services. You never know—we might have another idea.”

“Consider it done, Your Highness,” the developer replied.

I stood up and turned to Byshkovets.

“Mr. Byshkovets, let’s give the dev team a bonus. They’ve earned it.”

“Absolutely,” he said, trying (and failing) to hide his pleased expression.

Who knows? I thought. If this platform stabilized, maybe I’d finally get to roll out my real dream—online trade in Wasteland ingredients. If that worked, free hunters wouldn’t even need to go to the exchange anymore. Of course, that would require support from certain powerful people… Otherwise I wouldn’t last long. George had proved that anyone can be assassinated. There was no such thing as immortality.

Just as I stepped outside and headed for the car, two black SUVs pulled up in front of the business center.

A group of armed fighters got out, with a few mages among them.

The Vanilovs had finally made their move.

Chapter 5

“AND THEN WHAT happened?!” Maria asked, breathless with excitement. “You took them all down, right? All ten of them? No—twenty? Or thirty?!”

I laughed at her wide-eyed enthusiasm.

“You’ve got quite the imagination! How could I possibly take on twenty people? There wasn’t even a fight. We just… had a nice and very peaceful conversation. That’s all.”

We’d loaded up the kitchen with all kinds of sweets, and now the girls and I were sprawled across the massive bed in my room. With no way out—and having promised them the full story—I found myself carefully recounting an edited version of recent events in the capital.

“Oh, come on,” Anna scoffed. “You won the Imperial Tournament! You’re saying you didn’t get into a single fight after that? And what about security? They just watched those sketchy cars pull up and did nothing?”

“Well… I didn’t exactly win the whole thing,” I admitted, shaking my head. “The duel with the Guard was pretty even, and I have no idea how they’d react in a real fight—or how long I’d last, if it came to that. As for security—sure, they didn’t mess up. If things had gone south, they’d have had my back. But I still think the cudgel should be the last resort. Talking comes first.”

“If it had come to a fight, you’d have wiped the floor with them!” Anna declared confidently.

Maria cut in, eyes gleaming. “Who cares about the Guard? The whole thing with the Vanilovs sounds way more fascinating! What did you say to them?”

“Let me guess—‘Prepare to die, you filthy animals’?” Anna offered.

“Wow. You really overestimate both my badassery and my recklessness,” I said, half-laughing.

“Not at all,” she said, dead serious. “At our school, the girls are convinced that’s exactly the kind of thing you’d say.”

“You must be kidding me.”

“Nope. After you won at the tournament—or more precisely, after you were ranked a Militant—the school was buzzing. Rumors started flying, especially from anyone with friends or family in Morshansk. They talked about your adventures in the Wasteland and told all kinds of wild stories. You’re basically a legend. Get ready for a full-on mob at the next ball.”

As I tried to digest that unwelcome bit of news, someone knocked on the door. It swung open.

“Hey,” Ruslan said, stepping in and eyeing our cozy little setup. “Looks like you guys are making yourselves at home.”

“No!” Anna suddenly shouted.

“No what?” Ruslan blinked, confused. “Is something wrong?”

“I mean you can’t join us!” she snapped. “You’re way too busy to spend even five minutes with your sisters! So go back to your room. Study for your super-important exams. Go on!”

“Exams are important,” Ruslan said calmly, ignoring the hostility. “But I need a break too. And, like you, I’d also like to know what kind of chaos Ivan has managed to stir up this time in the Imperial capital.”

“These are slanderous insinuations,” I said solemnly. “What makes you think I stirred anything up?”

But something about his tone set off a warning bell in my head.

“Because about twenty minutes ago, Diachenko went tearing off toward Father’s office like his ass was on fire.”

“He really moved like that?” Maria asked.

“Like what?” I frowned.

“You know,” she said, glancing at Ruslan.

“Like he really had to use the bathroom but was trying to hide it,” Ruslan explained. “He walks fast, but it looks slow. I’ve tried to copy it—it’s harder than it looks.”

“A general running during peacetime makes people laugh, and in wartime, it causes panic,” I quoted an old saying, and then added, “But don’t distract me. Why do you think Diachenko was rushing off because of me? Maybe it’s something new about George’s case?”

“Why would anything new show up now?” Ruslan replied. “They’ve exhausted every theory. If something did come up, there’d be no rush—it’s clearly not time-sensitive if it’s been sitting around all this time.”

“You might be right,” I said slowly, “but I hope you’re not. We’ve already got enough problems without adding me to the list.”

“Hey! We’re off-topic again,” Anna said, pointing at Ruslan in mock accusation. “Ivan was in the middle of telling us about the Vanilov conflict, and you ruined the vibe!”

“Really?” Ruslan perked up. “That does sound interesting. I’d love to hear it.”

I sniggered, calculating exactly how much of that encounter I could safely share with this audience… and just like that, my mind slipped back to that moment.

When those two SUVs screeched to a halt not ten feet from me, packed with mages and armed men, I didn’t wait. I threw up my Will Shield and jumped back toward the building entrance—but I didn’t retreat. Not yet.

The Savior protects the cautious… but I wasn’t about to abandon my team.

And them? They reacted like pros.

Nikolai, always two steps behind me, leapt forward and deployed a defensive spell. Our SUV, which had looked perfectly ordinary a moment ago, suddenly unfolded two very real and very lethal machine guns, swiveling to target the newcomers. My men spilled out, weapons raised, positions held.

The other party didn’t lag behind. They moved fast, falling into formation, hands twitching, ready to cast.

For a few seconds, everything froze. Then a tall broad-shouldered man stepped forward from the group of strangers. Bald, wrapped in a long leather coat, flanked by two muscle-bound enforcers—every inch a gang boss from an old action flick.

And who was to say he wasn’t?

The two goons behind him looked like copies of their boss—maybe a few inches taller or wider here and there, but the resemblance was strong. Brothers? Nephews? I wasn’t sure. They hadn’t shown up in any of the photos I’d been given. But their boss? No doubt. That face was unmistakable—the head of the Vanilov family.

“Forgive me,” the man said in a pleasant baritone, addressing our security. “I’m just curious why we’re being greeted so enthusiastically. Are you expecting an attack?”

“Absolutely,” said Nikolai loudly, eyes locked on the strangers. “Especially from guys looking as gung-ho as you lot, pulling up in tactical SUVs and all that.”

“Likely just a misunderstanding,” the man chuckled unpleasantly.

“In that case, we’ll be going now,” Nikolai replied flatly. “Please remain where you are and don’t interfere.”

“Not so fast,” Vanilov said, lifting a hand. “There may be a misunderstanding, but I came here to speak with young Morozov.”

There it is, I thought. The condescension. He could’ve said “the Morozov heir,” or even just “Ivan Morozov.” But “young Morozov”? That was calculated.

Maybe it was a slip. More likely, it was a subtle reminder of our age gap—a way to frame me as the boy playing at business while he spoke for the adults.

“You didn’t understand,” Nikolai said, voice sharp with confidence. “Either we walk out of here unimpeded, or we force our way through.”

“Ah,” the man sighed theatrically. “I was hoping we wouldn’t get to that, but you leave me no choice.”

Two vans screeched in from the sides, boxing in our SUV. A dozen men in combat gear poured out, weapons ready.

Just like that, we were outnumbered.

I stepped back a few paces, lining myself up for a fast retreat into the building. Nikolai tried to pull me inside, but I didn’t budge.

“If anything happens, I’ll retreat using Step,” I said coldly. That shut him up.

Good thing I brought seasoned fighters—men I’d proven myself to in the Wastelands, I thought, relieved. The last thing I need is to get into a shouting match with my own guard in front of hostile witnesses.

Still, I didn’t believe the Vanilovs would actually make a move. Attacking me, here and now, would be stupid. Too public. Too risky. Our families weren’t in the same weight class—politically speaking. They might bark, but they wouldn’t bite.

Unless this was theater—meant to intimidate the boy who’d wandered into grown-up games. Maybe a bit of face-saving too, to show they wouldn’t hand over their prize without a fight.

Just in case, I charged my body with spirit energy, ready to shift out of harm’s way in a blink.

Tension filled the air like thick smoke. Our fighters were poised to act at the slightest twitch. It felt like one wrong move would turn the street into a slaughterhouse.

Time dragged on, slow and silent.

I saw a bead of sweat slide down Nikolai’s neck.

Of course he’s nervous, I thought. He’s staring down a bloodbath, and in his first real assignment, no less. He thinks he screwed up by letting me stay outside.

Me? I was calm.

Maybe I’d grown too used to the threat of sudden death. Maybe it was the knowledge I could vanish at a moment’s notice. Or maybe it was because I simply didn’t believe this performance would go anywhere. Vanilov wasn’t stupid enough to assault the last heir of a prince-blooded house—in broad daylight, in public, with witnesses.

“If you don’t want your men torn to shreds, stay put, boyo,” Vanilov finally said. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

Too casual, I thought, annoyed. Still trying to talk down to me. Still playing the age card. Let’s see how long that smug tone lasts.

Moments later, a group of four passed through our ranks unhindered—the family head in his leather coat, his thick-necked goons, and—shockingly—my senior lawyer. The same one handling the business center purchase.

He looked roughed up. His face bore clear signs of a beating. Head bowed, he walked stiffly, nudged forward by the hulks on either side.

I stared in silence as my man was paraded past me, bruised and shamed.

And I boiled.

I’d hired him. I had sent him into this.

And now he’d been beaten for following my orders.

That was the part I couldn’t forgive.

I had allowed this to happen.

“Your highness,” my lawyer blurted quickly, but I raised a hand and silenced him with a gesture. I wanted to hear what Vanilov would say.

But he said nothing.

He stared me down, drawing out the silence, clearly expecting me to react to seeing my lawyer in such company—maybe get flustered, start panicking, act like a child who didn’t know what to do next. Ideally, I’d start asking questions or stammering out justifications, and he could seize the initiative, start applying pressure.

But I didn’t take the bait.

I stayed silent, impassive, and completely expressionless.

On the outside, I was calm as a pond. Inside, rage was building, quietly looking for a crack to spill out of.

`“So you’re just going to stand there?” the bald man in the leather coat growled, likely convinced I was frozen in fear. “You don’t want to ask me anything?”

“No,” I said, adding some cold to my voice, my anger giving it a taut edge. “You came to me. That means you need something.”

“I’d say you need this, kid,” he snapped back, thrown by my composure. “Didn’t anyone teach you not to bring your sandbox rules into someone else’s playground?! Huh?!”

Still playing the age card, I noted inwardly, and replied evenly,

“I didn’t have a sandbox.”

When he realized I wasn’t going to play his game, a flicker of frustration crossed his face.

“So you weren’t raised properly,” he muttered, barely hiding his annoyance.

This was not how he’d pictured this going. Whatever script he’d written in his head was falling apart fast.

He’d expected the big bad adult, flanked by thugs, to overwhelm some wide-eyed teenager. But that teenager wasn’t cooperating, and now he had to improvise.

He took a step forward—but Nikolai stepped between us.

“What, hiding behind your guard now?” the man sneered at me, though he still didn’t dare provoke a fight. “You were so bold a second ago, mouthing off to your elders. Now it’s peek-a-boo time?”

“And you didn’t come alone to talk to a kid, either,” I replied, voice full of scorn. “Brought your muscle pups and half a private army. What for?”

The men behind him bristled. One looked like he was about to speak—but a slight tilt of the head from their boss shut him up.

“Well-trained, too,” I said in a sarcastic drawl. “Good little doggies.”

“Why you little—” one of them snarled, before the head of the family raised his hand again, cutting him off.

“I wanted to have a civil conversation,” Vanilov said, his voice now a clear threat. “But you’re being disrespectful and offensive.”

Feeling powerless already? I thought with satisfaction. He didn’t plan for a shootout. This was supposed to be a show of force—a scare tactic for the inexperienced child. And hey, it could have worked…

“If this is your idea of civil,” I said, raising an eyebrow, “then what does uncivil look like? Bringing a battalion? Helicopters? Hiring an archmage?”

He was boiling now. I could see it. Losing to a kid in a war of words wasn’t something that happened to him often.

But the man had experience. He shifted gears.

Without a word, he grabbed my lawyer by the lapel and yanked him forward.

“Hand it over,” he barked.

The poor man adjusted his crooked glasses and scrambled through his briefcase, pulling out some documents. Vanilov shoved him toward me.

“This is the purchase agreement for the Marchlewski business center,” he said with disdain. “I’ll pay five hundred thousand thalers for it. More than you did. Sign it. Don’t waste my time.”

“Your highness,” the lawyer whispered, clearly panicked at the breach of confidentiality, but again I lifted a hand to silence him.

“Are you alright?” I asked, ignoring Vanilov completely. “Where’s your team?”

“They stayed near the Accounting Center,” he said with relief. “These men only grabbed me.”

“Go inside,” I told him. “Wait for me there.”

As he passed, he whispered, “There are errors in the documents—they’ll never get processed.”

Well done, I thought. Played the helpless victim until the exact moment he could screw them over. Solid work.

Once the doors closed behind him, I turned back.

“Thanks for the generous offer,” I said. “But I’m not interested.”

“Kiddo,” Vanilov said, trying to stay composed, “do you understand I only have to say the word, and your men will be dead?”

“No more than you’ll be responsible for yours, Igor,” I replied, letting his real name land hard—and watching him flinch.

“Of course I know who you are. Don’t kid yourself—my age doesn’t make me blind. I’m well aware of your capabilities… and of your so-called noble ‘protection.’ Which means threats are a waste of breath.”

Vanilov looked faintly disoriented.

He clearly didn’t expect a kid to outplay him—and this is only the beginning.

“Oh, and one more thing,” I said calmly. “Something rather important, actually.” I let the pause hang in the air—just long enough—then used the “chill” to add a razor-edge to my tone. “If you ever lose your bearings and decide to make a move against the younger son of Prince Temnikov—who happens to be the last living scion of a struggling “golden house” and a close friend of the Imperial heir—you’ll find yourself abandoned by everyone. Every protector, every ally, and every so-called friend.”

I let the silence hit before finishing.

“And when that happens… I won’t give a single broken thaler for the lives of the Vanilov line.”

Igor Vanilov said nothing. But his glare spoke volumes.

“And while it’s true that with imperial mercy, the women and children of your House might be spared—left to scrape by in disgrace—you can forget about my father’s forgiveness. Prince Temnikov has already buried one son. He won’t be feeling generous if he has to bury another.”

Trying to claw back some control, the bald man with the leather coat forced a crooked smile.

“You’ve got guts, boy. Not bad. Not bad at all. Can’t be scared off easily, huh? But tell me—aren’t you worried about your men?”

“Why should I be?” I shrugged. “They’re grown men. They knew what they signed up for. Unlike your mercs, mine have walked the Wastelands and put down demons face to face. They’ve seen things. If you make the wrong move… start digging. You’ll need a lot of coffins.”

“Maybe so,” he sneered. “But they’ll still die. Wouldn’t it be wiser, as their commander, to keep them alive and just sign the deal?”

“You won’t start a fight,” I said, shaking my head. “You know why. I already told you. But if you want to test their readiness—go ahead.”

“Fine. I see how it is. Goodbye, Morozov.” He practically spat the words. “Can’t say this meeting was pleasant, but it was… enlightening.”

“Not so fast.” I shook my head slowly.

And then let the storm out.

The air around us dropped ten degrees in a heartbeat. Frost bloomed across the pavement. Ice laced the asphalt, curled up onto the concrete, and etched jagged crystal patterns across the glass doors behind me.

“You,” I said, voice low and vibrating with wrath, “made a very stupid mistake when you decided you had the right to lay hands on my man.”

I didn’t let the fury fully consume me, but I wanted him to think I was close—one hair-trigger from snapping. Just enough to scare him.

“Calm down!” Vanilov barked. “If you lose control now, your men will pay the price!”

“Your men will go down first,” I snarled. “If you want a body count, I promise you’ll lose more. Now. You will compensate my lawyer for the assault—five thousand thalers. I want it now.”

“Five thousand?!” Don Ignacio exploded. “That little weakling? He didn’t even put up a fight! He played along and handed over the documents himself!”

With deliberate errors, I thought with a smirk. And out loud,

“That doesn’t change the fact you had no right to touch him. Five thousand.”

“You’ve lost your damn mind! Dwarf saws up your—!” he bellowed. “You waltz in, steal the deal, and now you want compensation?! Screw you!”

“Prepare for combat,” I said clearly.

The air snapped taut with tension.

“Enough of this crap,” the man hissed and gave a sharp nod. One of his brutes pulled out a wallet and flung a bundle of notes at Nikolai.

“Five thousand four hundred,” Nikolai confirmed after a quick count.

“Return the extra,” I said coldly.

“Keep it!” Vanilov snapped. “Call it a hazard bonus.”

“Just remember,” I said, voice flat with menace, “if anything happens to my people or my property, I’ve got a very short list of suspects. And I do have friends to complain to.”

The bald man scowled, turned on his heel, and stormed off.

I counted that as agreement.

Not bad, I thought, the tension finally ebbing. But next time, I’d need to act even crazier.

Chapter 6

“DIDN’T I TELL YOU EVERYTHING would go smoothly? Our Ivan handled it just fine,” said an elderly voice from the rooftop of the building next to the business center on Marchlewski Avenue. “Did you see how he shut that guy down? Damn that was neat! Haven’t seen anything like that in years! We raised a true Avtiukian there, Theophane, you and I! A real piece of work. What I liked best was that he didn’t hesitate to threaten them—not just with his own father, but with the heir to the throne, too! Not many boys his age would do that. Most would hold back, try to prove they’re worth something on their own… and that’s when they get their little teeth broken.”

“Yeah, Ivan did well,” Theophane said tensely, eyes fixed on the departing convoy of cars. “I’ve been teaching him to rely on his head rather than his emotions, and so far, he hasn’t let me down. Still… I can’t shake the feeling that something’s off. Something doesn’t add up. A man like Vanilov wouldn’t back down that easily. That’s just not how he operates. He’s not all that different from the image he puts on—meat-headed thug, sure, but the type to hold a grudge. I’ve got a bad feeling that bald bastard’s up to something.”

“Heh-heh. You’re getting old, brother,” grunted old Taras, shaking his head and taking a deep swig from a hefty clay jug. “You really are. Ivan’s not going to have any trouble from that little weakling. I’ve seen plenty of young hotheads like him in my time. If, say, it was a commoner with some backbone, or a scion of a young Bronze House, then sure—he might flatten him into the pavement without batting an eye. But someone with clout, with patrons like that? He’ll tuck tail and run, no matter how much he puffs himself up. And your ‘intuition’… bah! Maybe it’s whispering about future trouble, but is it saying what kind? Maybe you’re just about to develop a hemorrhoid in your twilight years and your gut’s trying to warn you! Tee hee!”

“Why are you on my case about aging?!” Theophane snapped, glaring at Taras. “I’ve still got plenty of strength and energy left! What makes you think I’m starting to age?”

“Tee hee hee! Denying the obvious again!” the old Avtiukian laughed. “Aging’s just a natural process, where both of us slowly lose our edge. I used to think the same way: ‘Old age? Not me!’ Until the day my camouflage blinked out right in front of a pack of hungry demons. I was left with only mid-tier techniques in my arsenal, and that’s when I realized what it mea—”

“Oh shut up already!” Theophane waved him off. “I’ve heard that story like a thousand times! And I told you back then, and I’ll say it again: that happened because you stopped training your physical body. You thought you could coast on past glory and old techniques! Good thing it happened out in the Wasteland and you managed to outrun the demons. But imagine if that had happened during that fight with the girl in the parking lot? What then? Would you have lost in disgrace?”

“Well, I wouldn’t have let that little whippersnapper beat me either way,” grumbled old man Taras, taking another swig of wine. “But you know… it’s one thing to kill the poor dear without breaking a sweat, and a whole other thing to fight her on equal footing and let her walk away afterward.”

“I know. The second way’s a hell of a lot harder,” Theophane agreed. “That’s exactly my point. If it hadn’t been for that incident in the Wasteland, you wouldn’t have gone back to training, and who knows if we’d be sitting here like this today?”

Taras said nothing, tacitly conceding the point. After a pause, he added, “You know, Theophane… they’re all gone already. Ivan’s headed to the capital, then to the Temnikov estate. The Vanilovs went off to do whatever it is they do. Maybe it’s time we left too. We’re just standing here like a pair of idiots. Personally, I don’t see any danger left for our ward. None. Plus, Ivan won’t be in Marigrad anymore today. What do you say we head back to Morshansk? Marysia will fry up a heap of hash brownies, bring out some pickled cucumbers, sauerkraut with caraway and cranberries, and those jars of pickled greens she stashed away. I’ll fish out some of my own homebrew from the basement. We’ll kick back, eat our fill, talk about cabbages and kings, and figure out our next move from there.”

Theophane looked wistfully at his old friend and shook his head. “Tempting, especially the bit about your homebrew—and that kraut with pickled greens? You sure know how to hit a man right in the cravings. But you see for yourself, I still have business here. Thanks for having my back these past few days, but I need to finish this. I’ll come later. Go on home. I bet Marysia’s missed you these past few days.”

“Suit yourself,” Taras sighed. “You’ve got my number, so call when you’re done. And if we’re being honest about aches and pains—remember, I didn’t even mention the bathhouse.”

With that, the old Avtiukian stood up, gulped down the last of the wine, lowered the jug, took a few shaky steps sideways, tripped over his own foot, and silently tumbled off the rooftop.

“Show-off. Always makes a dramatic exit,” Theophane muttered, still standing on the rooftop. Then his expression turned serious. “No, for peace of mind, Vanilov needs a courtesy visit—and it’s best done at night. Can I handle it alone? Easily. So let’s not put off ’til tomorrow what I can do tonight.”

* * *

Theophane strolled unhurriedly through a sizeable settlement about twenty-five miles from the imperial capital, having thrown on a high-rank stealth technique.

“Not bad at all,” he thought, glancing around at the tidy empty street lined with tall fences. “Quiet, calm, and secure. If you can’t catch an intruder yourself, odds are a neighbor will. That is, unless a Knight or an Archmage shows up.”

Stopping at a tall fence bearing a handsome plaque reading “Maison Vanilov,” Theophane activated every sense and technique at his disposal, and began surveying the situation beyond the wall.

After scanning for magical and electronic security systems and tracking the patrols’ positions, he vaulted the high barrier in a single powerful leap and landed silently on the neatly trimmed lawn.

Surveying the surroundings once more, the nocturnal intruder noted an open window on the second floor and made his way towards it unhurriedly. Navigating the rather elaborate security system with ease, Theophane ducked behind a tall thuja tree, let the next guard pass, and then surged forward.

The momentum of his dash allowed him to leap high and scale the smooth wall with surprising ease. Once at the window, he swiftly assessed the interior and, using the Step technique, slipped inside without disturbing a single sensor on the sill.

The room wasn’t empty. Its occupant—a young woman of about twenty—had one shapely leg poking from beneath the blanket and was gently snoring, clutching a pillow in her sleep. Seeing she hadn’t been awakened by his entrance, Theophane moved silently into the empty hallway.

Just in time. The previously peaceful sleeper suddenly stirred and bolted upright. She scanned the room for a few moments, saw no one, and chalked it up to some silly nightmare before lying back down to sleep again.

Theophane glanced around, quickly got his bearings, and headed toward the staircase. A servant of the Vanilovs he’d questioned the day before—bribed with a modest sum and a promise to spare his life—had provided all the information he needed. The knight knew exactly where to go.

“No one?” Theophane frowned, puzzled by the emptiness of the Vanilov patriarch’s room. “Three in the morning—he’s still working? And his wife’s missing too. What are they up to in that office? Or are they not home at all?”

Theophane’s techniques picked up a single presence inside the family head’s study at the end of the hallway.

Dropping his disguise, the knight entered the room and found the man himself lounging comfortably in a guest chair, a drink in hand, watching a massive television.

He didn’t look surprised at all by the nighttime visitor—just gave him a casual salute like greeting an old comrade.

A sudden intense wave of unease swept over Theophane. He activated every sense and detection technique he had—and then froze in astonishment.

There, seated behind the desk of the Vanilov patriarch… was Yegor Temnikov himself.

“You were right,” said the bald man, addressing the prince. “He really did show up. But I still don’t agree that my men wouldn’t have been able to handle him.”

“They wouldn’t have,” Temnikov countered, his voice calm. “If he’d come here for revenge, there wouldn’t be a single living soul left in your family. Which means, tonight… you owe me. Big time.”

Vanilov bristled, looked like he was about to speak—then thought better of it. The dense fog swirling around Temnikov said more than any words could.

“Sit down, Theophane,” Prince Yegor gestured toward the chair beside him. “No need to stand—besides, we’ve got things to discuss.”

“There’s nothing to discuss,” the old warrior growled, clearly in no mood to be sociable.

“How can you say that?” Temnikov shook his head. “What about Ivan? I think you’ll like that topic.”

The Knight fell silent, then after a pause asked thoughtfully, “You’ve gotten stronger. Don’t tell me… Archmage rank?”

Seeing Vanilov blanch, Theophane snorted.

“All right, Yegor, you’ve bored me enough with your chatter. If we’ve confirmed Ivan’s fine and the shiny top here is just your decoy, I’ll take my leave. Got plenty to do, you know.”

Just then, the door opened, and Theophane felt the tension spike.

“No need to make a scene,” came a familiar voice—Professor Petius, who was sounding downright menacing. “Sit down, Theophane… or we’ll have to make you.”

* * *

I knew it wouldn’t be a good morning the moment I saw Theodore’s sheepish face. For some reason, he showed up in my room right after morning training.

“What’s wrong?” I asked immediately, springing from the bed.

“I just ran into Father,” my brother said, voice oddly flat. “Turns out he knows what you’ve been up to in the capital.”

“Well, if that’s all that’s got you rattled, don’t worry about it,” I waved it off. “I always knew Nikolai was leaking info. Did you at least not get chewed out for sneaking off?”

“Nope.”

Despite my answer, my brother didn’t seem relieved. If anything, his frown deepened.

“What else?” I prompted him, a little impatient. I had no idea what could have gotten him acting this strangely.

“I don’t know everything, and maybe I don’t understand it all, either,” he finally said, picking his words carefully. “But for some reason I can’t explain… Father’s got your Theophane locked up in the dungeon right now.”

I didn’t wait to hear the rest. I bolted out of the room and headed straight for the basement.

“Turn right here,” Theodore called out, catching up to me. “They’ve got him in the high-rank mage cell, for some reason.”

I didn’t answer. But he must have put the pieces together from my reaction, because he didn’t press.

When we reached the basement, two guards and a mage stood outside a reinforced door. They didn’t stop us—we walked right in.

Theophane was sitting on a wooden bench, his back to the wall, staring blankly into space. His face was a mess of bruises and cuts. His nose had been broken and twisted off to one side. His entire body was covered in raw wounds and deep burns.

His arms and legs were shackled with wide manacles inscribed with strange symbols. He was sitting in some kind of twisted lotus pose, completely still.

“Some artifact draining his energy,” I guessed. “Otherwise, Theophane would’ve busted out already.”

I tried to approach him, but a misty veil rose between us—rushing out from my father’s aura. Despite its hazy look, it turned out to be nearly harder than stone.

“Get rid of it,” I demanded sharply, staring at Temnikov.

“And why should I?” he shot back, meeting my gaze without flinching.

“He’s my mentor,” I said, steady and unblinking. I’d only seen eyes that dark in horror movies, but seeing them in real life was a whole different kind of unsettling.

“And also a man who’s spilled blood in this house,” my father snapped. “He’s a criminal. I have every right.”

Glancing aside, I saw that my brother Theodore—who’d been listening curiously a moment ago—was swept out of the cell like a feather by my father’s dark aura. The heavy door slammed shut with a crash.

Aha. So now came the bargaining, I thought. Father had gotten rid of the witnesses—makes sense. No need for the elder son to know just how dirty our family laundry gets.

“You spilled blood in this house too,” I said firmly, seizing the moment. “And he was fixing your mistakes.”

“Maybe so, but that doesn’t—”

“What do you want?” I cut him off abruptly, wrecking whatever performance he’d been building. “Say it straight.”

I didn’t know what exactly he was after, but I was sure it was no accident Theodore had seen the morning drama or ended up in my room.

“I want him dead,” my father said at last, after a brief pause. “He’s guilty. That’s all there is to it.”

Then why drag him here? I wondered. Why not kill him where he stood? Drama queen… All right, I decided I would play along.

“That’s not going to happen,” I said, shaking my head. “You know damn well he’s the only one who’s stayed loyal to me. He’s saved my life more than once. It’s my turn to pay that back.”

“I understand,” Father said simply—and fell silent.

What’s he really after? I wondered. And then it hit me. Idiot! How didn’t I see it? He wants to cancel his debts.

“Do you remember that after I won the final tournament, you owed me a few favors?” I asked, then added mentally, Five, to be exact.

His expression soured as he nodded, and I knew I’d hit the mark.

“Good. Then I want you to release Theophane and drop all charges. No more claims, no more games.”

“That’s two requests,” Temnikov objected. “Besides, a man’s life—especially one like him—could easily be worth all five. That would be fair.”

“You’ve got some nerve,” I snapped. “When you needed help, I did everything you asked. That’s why you’re sitting pretty now. You even said five was fair and that we wouldn’t haggle. But now that I need something, suddenly you’re splitting hairs and trying to cheat me?!”

I paused, let the silence sit, and then said,

“Fine. If you won’t play fair, here’s my one request—I want Theophane granted full immunity. That’s one request, right? That’s fair?”

My father squinted at me for a moment, and then said,

“On one condition. He must swear not to harm any member of the Temnikov family.”

“That’s reasonable,” I replied, though something about it troubled me.

Why does he think Theophane would actually keep his word? Sure, he’ll try—but life’s full of surprises.

As soon as the dark veil was pulled back into my father’s body, my mentor tried to speak—but broke into a fit of coughing.

He needs water! I realized, seeing the state he was in. In the next instant, I was already holding a frosty glass to his lips, cold water sloshing inside.

Wait—did I just do that? I stared, stunned. My power had jumped several levels!

“Damn, that hits the spot,” Theophane rasped, coming back to life before my eyes. “Took me a while to get a proper drink.”

“You heard everything, Knight?” my father asked. “Are you ready to take an Unbreakable Oath?”

An Unbreakable Oath? I blinked.

“I’m ready,” Theophane said. “But I’ll add one condition. I won’t harm any Temnikovs—unless they threaten me or Ivan.”

“Fair enough,” my father agreed after a moment.

“Then just take these gods-awful shackles off me,” my mentor muttered with a grimace. “They’ve drained me dry. I’ll keel over soon. Wouldn’t mind a recovery potion, either. That oath takes a lot out of you.”

“What’s an Unbreakable Oath?” I asked Theophane quietly. “Never heard of it.”

“It’s a technique. Lets you force high-ranked warriors and mages to keep a promise.”

“You never told me about that,” I noted.

“That’s because you needed that knowledge about as much as a fish needs and umbrella. We had more pressing matters back then.”

Our humble chat was cut short by Professor Petius, who entered the cell holding an oddly-shaped long key and a bottle of green potion.

He quickly unlocked the shackles and handed the bottle to my mentor. Theophane rubbed his sore wrists, popped the small wooden stopper out with his teeth, and downed the liquid in one go with a satisfied grunt.

“Been a while since I last had a pricey cessbush berry elixir,” he said, closing his eyes.

That was from the cessbush patch Theophane and I had found during one of our first expeditions into the Wasteland, I remembered, struck by the timing, and found myself watching his every move with great attention.

After a few minutes, a faint red mist began to rise from him, and then his eyes snapped open, glowing with that same crimson hue.

“I, Theophane Elizarov, Knight of House Morozov,” my mentor began solemnly, “swear upon my spirit power and my very life that by action or inaction I shall cause no harm to any son or daughter of House Temnikov—provided that their actions or inaction do not bring harm to me or to House Morozov. Let the witnesses present bear testimony to my oath.”

His entire form seemed to swell with red light, and my father’s aura responded with a swirl of dark mist. The head of Professor Petius’ staff glowed with a dull gray light—and, to my surprise, the cold within my inner world shimmered with a deep blue radiance.

“Oath accepted,” my father said with satisfaction and made for the exit without another word.

“Come on,” I offered Theophane my hand. “You need to get cleaned up and have a proper meal.”

“Well, now that’s something,” I muttered once he’d recovered and explained how he’d ended up in the manor’s dungeon. “So they used you as bait.”

Theophane nodded, then fixed me with a probing look. “You don’t actually think he meant to kill me, do you?”

“I’m not sure,” I said, shaking my head. “But I don’t think so. That move of his killed several birds with one stone. First, he neutralized you—so now he doesn’t need to worry about the safety of his family. Second, he shifted you from the category of enemies to allies, at the very least. If someone attacks the estate now, you won’t sit it out—you’ll defend it. Third, he knows that because of my age, I don’t have any solid allies apart from you. So he used this to squeeze one of those owed requests out of me. Good thing I didn’t give in—I only spent one. Got four left. Also, Professor Petius showing up with the key and potion right on time? That’s no coincidence. Father never even left the room after our agreement. So, yeah—it was all staged. He wouldn’t have killed you.”

“I’d wager there’s also a fourth and a fifth reason we don’t know about yet,” Theophane said philosophically, drawing a heavy sigh. “Honestly, I didn’t think you’d use one of your requests on me. Yegor wouldn’t have killed me. And if he had, you would have avenged me. I think he knew that.”

“To make sure you can enter this house freely and stay close to me, I’d do far more than that,” I said seriously. “So this is the least I could give. And I’m glad it turned out this way.”

“Perhaps,” he nodded, eyes shifting aside.

“Can I ask something a bit… personal?” I said, switching topics. He nodded, so I continued. “What exactly have you been doing all this time?”

Theophane gave a smug grin and activated some kind of anti-surveillance technique.

“You sure that’s safe?” I asked, raising a skeptical brow. “You didn’t even know they were watching you. Maybe let’s not push our luck?”

His smile vanished, and he nodded slowly. “You’re right. Your father’s gotten hold of artifacts I’ve never seen before. Better not to risk it. Let’s take a walk. Been a while since I enjoyed the local park.”

“So?” I said eagerly once we’d settled on a bench. “What’s the deal?”

Theophane reactivated his technique and spoke with pride. “I’ve been building something that you’ll absolutely need in the future.”

“What is it?” I asked, still clueless.

“I’ve been creating a security force for House Morozov,” he said—and laughed outright at the way my jaw dropped.

“What, you thought I’d sit around twiddling my thumbs? I’m not a spring chicken anymore—Taras, for one, claims I’m downright ancient. Which means I might not be around much longer. I need to leave behind a structure that’ll keep you safe. And judging by recent events, the timing was perfect. Without your own people, things will only get harder from here.”

“Then why in the Savior’s name did you go to the Vanilovs alone?!” I stared at him, genuinely baffled.

“That was my own arrogance—and my unwillingness to storm the residence of a “bronze” house. Besides, the others were tied up. I figured I could handle it.”

“Tied up with what?”

“With the tasks I have given them,” Theophane grunted. “You didn’t think I could just gather people and expect loyalty, did you? First, every candidate has to stand the line with me for a while—to shed blood and sweat, thus proving their devotion, to decide whether they truly want to serve their lord. And I’ve been searching for quality, mind you. Hand-picked talent with the right destiny and potential. I’m bonding the best of the best into a cohesive unit.”

“How many have you picked so far?” I asked.

“Twenty-three warriors and four mages,” he said, raising a finger. “Not a huge number, sure—but trust me, they’re top-tier. With that kind of backbone, you can rebuild the House.”

“And how the hell did you pay for all that?” I asked, floored.

“Well… it wasn’t easy at first,” he admitted. “I had to dip into the stash and do a few Wasteland runs. But once I’d recruited a few people, we reached self-sufficiency.”

“Thank you,” I said after a long pause. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“And I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Theophane replied. “So I guess we’re even.”

Our conversation was cut short by the approach of my sisters, who were making a beeline straight for us.

Chapter 7

THE IMPERIAL PALACE BALL, as always, was top-notch. Great atmosphere, music, food, drinks—and most importantly, the kind of company that practically reeked of serious wealth. No, scratch that—enormous wealth. And that was despite the fact that the guests were just children and teenagers.

I wasn’t fooled by the crowd’s age as I watched them. That flaw tended to pass quickly enough. I also knew for a fact that many noble houses took the upbringing of the next generation very seriously. Wouldn’t surprise me one bit if, twenty or thirty years down the line, some of these kids scrambled all the way up the greasy pole of politics and wealth. When that happened, having met them early on might prove a priceless asset.

And honestly, even the ones who’d stay in the mid-ranks were worth keeping in touch with. I understood that very clearly after becoming the main shareholder in our company. I wouldn’t be exaggerating if I said most of our new clients came from exactly that kind of crowd—and they were already bringing in about seventy percent of our net profit. Those numbers were something to reckon with. That was what a truly developed nation with a wealthy middle class looked like.

Work in a fast-growing IT company was piled sky-high and climbing daily. Every morning I thanked the Savior for sending me that blazing ball of enthusiasm—the young, promising, sharp-minded, and sturdy Byshkovets. The guy could carry a whole farmstead on his back. Realizing the future in front of him, Andrei raced through departments like a madman, solving issue after issue as his baby empire kept expanding. He even picked himself a few deputies, all just as driven. I don’t know how he motivated them, but the fact that we were moving forward in massive leaps made me pretty damn happy.

Sure, there were problems Andrei couldn’t handle personally—it wasn’t his job to negotiate with fly-by-night racketeers, brazen bureaucrats, or certain overly entitled noble houses. Those were my functions. And, in turn, that was what Theophane usually ended up handling. I’d dispatched him to the capital without a second thought. My mentor got right to work organizing security for the only property I owned at the time—and judging by how our problems had vanished, things were going well.

Sitting on a cozy couch with Godimir, my sisters, and a few of their friends, I was leisurely sipping some delicious juice while scanning the teenagers drifting past, recalling what I knew about their families’ businesses—and weighing whether a closer connection would be worth my time.

Back in the day, I thought the Imperial Ball was a tedious and pointless waste of time. But I’ve changed my mind. Just like I’ve changed my attitude about forming relationships for the sake of personal gain. What soothed my conscience was knowing I had something to offer in return.

That shift in perspective started after a conversation I had with Ted a while back. I’d explained to my older brother why I’d chosen to start building a business so young, and why it was important to push forward despite the obstacles. I told him that after my emancipation, I might be left on my own—that Father had no obligation to bankroll me—and that House Morozov should be “golden” not just on paper, but in reality. That was when it really sank in: this was exactly how it would go. No one owed me a damn thing. And if everyone forged their own fate, then it was time I started forging mine.

Thinking about my father’s murky attitude toward me—and just how fast he could flip from wrath to mercy—I realized I might lose his support a lot sooner than expected. The day he finally got tired of my antics and kicked me out of Morozov family residence might come sooner than I'd like. And I had zero desire to hit the streets unprepared, with hardly so much as a scrap to cover my butt.

So it’s no surprise that the very balls I had once found dreadfully dull had suddenly become much more interesting. After all, they were a prime opportunity to scout out potential new clients. And if I didn’t have my own business, I probably wouldn’t care nearly as much.

Worth noting—while I was definitely eager to meet new people, a lot of them were also keen to connect with me. No exaggeration—I was in high demand. Barely five minutes would pass without my sisters or someone from previous events dragging over another new acquaintance.

Well, why not? I wasn’t “merely” a noble brat from a “golden” house—and the heir apparent to boot—which was already no small thing. But I was also the recent winner of the Imperial Tournament. I’d earned the right to wear the Militant’s ring in a pretty dramatic fashion, showing the whole damn country my real mettle. No wonder Anna and Maria said I’d become popular at their school. And not just with them, apparently.

“Looks like they’re bringing me another one,” I thought, snapping out of my reverie at Ogneyer’s slight cough and glancing toward the approaching pair. It was time to see what this one was about.

I already knew one of them. The other was a sharp, confident-looking boy of about eleven, who introduced himself as Arsenio, Baron Zeffiro.

“Ivan, forgive me for cutting straight to the point,” Arsenio began, glancing at his slightly flustered companion, “but I promised my father I’d start the conversation as soon as Marat introduced me.” He looked me squarely in the eye. “I came to speak with you about a matter of mutual interest to our Houses, and I hope you’ll understand the reason for this meeting.”

A matter of interest to our Houses? I thought, surprised. Huh… I vaguely recall something about the Zeffiro family. Don’t they own some factories? Maybe they heard about my tournament win and now they want to pitch an investment opportunity? Guess I’ll find out in a moment.

“I’ll take it seriously,” I said. “After all, a request from one’s father—now that’s no small thing.” I gestured to the empty chair. “We can talk here, unless it’s some deep secret?”

The boy beamed and sat down right away. I turned to the one called Marat, who still stood awkwardly nearby.

“You’re welcome to join us too. There’s plenty of room.”

“Thanks, but maybe later,” Marat said with a breath of relief, nodding gratefully. “I’ve fulfilled my mission—and my sister’s waiting under the care of a friend, poor thing.”

“So?” I turned to Arsenio once Marat had gone. “I admit—I’m a little intrigued.”

“Well, here’s the deal,” Zeffiro said, hesitating for a second before straightening up and continuing with confidence. “You probably know your popularity’s been on the rise lately across the Empire?”

“Across the Empire?” I repeated, thinking about my sisters’ classmates. “Or did you mean just part of the population?”

“I meant all of it,” Arsenio replied with certainty. “And that’s not just the opinion of House Zeffiro—it’s based on analysis from the Imperial Center for Statistical Research.”

My eyebrows lifted. That was news to me—and came completely out of the blue.

“I see you’re surprised,” the boy chuckled. “I won’t try to explain why it happened or how it all came together—not my strength. But here’s why I’m here: my family’s business involves producing all kinds of merchandise—keychains, toys, you name it. We also own a few magazines, some small newspapers, and printing presses.”

He paused, grabbed a glass of water from the table, and took a few small sips before going on.

“So I’m proposing that we sign a contract with you to produce merchandise using your likeness—figurines, keychains, wall posters, and a lot more.”

Zeffiro finished speaking. I sat there like I’d been hit over the head with a sack of bricks.

Merchandise? Posters of me? I’m that famous? That popular? And they think this could actually make money? Well… why should I care? If money’s falling into my lap, why not grab it?

“What’s my percentage from the sales?” I asked—the only question that mattered.

“You’d have to ask my father,” Arsenio said with a shrug, handing me a card. “I was just sent to see if you’d be open to the idea. Call us when you’re ready.”

“Fair enough,” I said, tucking the card into my pocket.

Good, I’ll have time to feel it out and do a little research so I don’t walk into this blind.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Godimir said, looking at me with mock reverence once Zeffiro had gone. “I’m definitely buying your figurine the moment it hits the shelves.”

“Oh, knock it off,” I waved him away. “This whole thing doesn’t even seem that profitable. I doubt I’m that popular.”

“Well, once the figurines come out, I’ll buy a whole set,” Ogneyer chimed in.

“What’s the deal?” I asked, instantly suspicious.

“Nothing,” he laughed. “It’s just… I used to have one of their toys. The head was way bigger than the body, and it was on a spring. It would bobble around constantly. They’ve also got these squishy silicone ones—if you squeeze them, the eyes pop out like balloons. Some of them even stick out a huge tongue.”

“Well, if that’s the worst of it, I’ll survive,” I said, and after a short pause, added thoughtfully, “Honestly, I didn’t think winning the tournament would turn me into some kind of celebrity. What do you all make of it?”

“I don’t think it’s really about your skills as a warrior,” Godimir said, shaking his head. “It’s something else entirely.” He didn’t wait for me to ask. “What matters is that after your self-initiation—which has proved your strong magical potential—you also showed serious skill in martial arts. You see where I’m going with this?”

“You mean that most nobles have much higher magical ranks than combat ones?” I mused. “Except for those whose magic is too weak, so they specialize in fighting instead. And if it weren’t for the self-initiation, I’d have been lumped into that second group after the tournament? But because of it, everyone now assumes I’m magically powerful and a solid fighter. So logically, they figure I’m not just strong—I might be an archmage in the making. That’s the image they’ve built in their heads, right?”

“Exactly!” Godimir nodded smugly. “That’s what I meant.”

“But the whole Empire saw the self-initiation in that video,” I said, skeptical. “Did my Militant’s rank really make such a difference?”

“Well, don’t forget your story,” Ogneyer pointed out. “You were the last hope of your House, then you died, and two years later came back—under utterly insane circumstances. And during the tournament, you showed off some pretty advanced techniques. Not to mention the fight with the Guards—that was practically a PR stunt. Everyone knows they only take the best of the best.”

“Boys,” Maria snorted, shooting a look at Godimir before rolling her eyes. “All you ever care about is throwing punches and flexing your strength. Is that really all Ivan has got going for him?”

“Oh, come on!” Godimir replied, clearly annoyed. “What, pray tell, do you regard as truly important? And what could make him more popular?”

“A lot of things,” my sister said with a smile. “You’re not wrong, but in this case, the explosion in popularity came from something else entirely. You just sit there, not listening to anyone, and completely oblivious of what’s going on around you.”

“Then enlighten us, oh wisest of oracles,” I said with a smirk. “I, for one, would love to hear your brilliant deductions about what I have apparently missed about myself.”

“It’s simple,” Maria said grandly, flashing a satisfied grin. “Your popularity skyrocketed right after it came out that you were connected to the creation of that new dating site everyone’s on. I swear, every single one of them is ecstatic about it. I even heard Yamashita was yelling at his soldiers during a combat drill because they were glued to their phones texting.”

“What?” Ogneyer stared at me in disbelief. “How the hell are you involved in that?”

“Seriously?” I frowned at Maria. “Where did that come from, and why didn’t you mention this sooner?”

“I only recently found out it was your doing,” she said, crossing her arms. “And I didn’t bring it up because Anna and I are deeply disappointed in you. You somehow forgot to mention this rather important detail when you were talking about your time in the capital.”

Byshkovets, you bastard… What the hell were you thinking? Trying to build hype? Probably. And if things were really going the way Maria claimed, then maybe it was worth it—but still, he should have cleared it with me first! I was rather annoyed, already planning how I’d steer Andrei back onto the path of righteousness. Or maybe I’ll have Theophane do it. He always knew how to choose the right words.

“And how exactly did you find out?” I asked Maria.

“The girls showed me a video,” she said. “Someone did a whole investigation, explaining how they figured out who owns the company behind MatchUp.”

“And do they actually mention a name? Any mention of House Morozov?” I asked, calming down slightly.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “You’ll see when we get home. I didn’t fully understand all of it.”

Alright, fine. Let Andrei enjoy his life for now, I thought, cooling off a little. “Didn’t know you were the vengeful type.”

“Me?” she shrugged and pointed toward Anna, sitting with her friends. “You should be looking at her. She’s really mad at you.”

Godimir, who hadn’t said much until now, grinned and said, “So I’m not the only one you keep secrets from?”

“Oh, come on, ‘secrets’ is a bit too much,” I said, walking it back. “It just didn’t come up. Besides, I didn’t want to run my mouth too early. Why talk about projects that might not even take off?”

“And when was this huge thing supposed to launch?” Ogneyer asked, clearly intrigued. “This is the first I’m hearing about you being involved in anything that big. Not just some app, either—turns out it’s a really cool app. I’ve heard about MatchUp a bunch lately. And apparently, you even own a company or two? How’s that even possible? You’re underage!”

“I would have told you when the time came,” I shrugged. “Honestly, I didn’t expect the site to blow up so fast. I figured it’d take a year before we saw numbers like this—but hey presto, instant success. Makes me think some of my other ideas might work, too.”

I took a sip of juice to wet my throat before continuing.

“As for the company—well, that’s easy. Sure, I can’t officially own or run anything yet, but that’s why you set it up under someone else’s name. Plus, in our laws, a noble House is a legal entity. So technically, House Morozov owns it.”

“You sly bastard,” Godimir said with a grin, giving me a thumbs-up. “So where’d the money come from for all this? You already burning through your tournament winnings? Or did Grandpa leave you a fat inheritance?”

“All by my own hand,” I smirked. “Yeah, I’ve started dipping into the winnings. No point letting it sit around in some account.”

“Honestly? That’s pretty awesome,” Godimir said, shaking his head. “Shame my dad won’t let me touch anything like that. Not until I’m older and graduate, at least.”

“Why wouldn’t he?” I asked, surprised. “If it’s your own money, he might not say a word. And you’ve saved up plenty—it should be enough to start something small. Besides, you’ve spent entire weekends gaming and no one said anything.”

“Well, if my dad does let me try something—what do you think I should do?” he asked, staring at me like I was about to reveal a sacred secret.

“It’s not that complicated,” I said, not wanting to crush his enthusiasm. “First, figure out what you’d actually enjoy doing. Register a business name, then buy, say… a small coffee shop. You’ve got enough saved for that. Hire a manager, sort out the staff, think about how to bring in customers—and start earning. With the money you make that first year, open a second café, then a third… and keep going. If your dad sees it’s working, he might even invest. Help you out, throw in some cash, maybe even offer resources.”

Godimir gave me a strange look, and then said,

“You know, after hearing all that, I’m suddenly not so keen on this whole business thing. It sounds complicated enough just listening to you talk about it—and I’m sure in practice there’d be even more little details and headaches. Besides, we’re getting transferred into Witowt’s class this year, and then there’ll be no time for running a company. I don’t even know when you’ll manage to work on yours.”

“Well, it’s not like we’ll be locked in prison cells or anything,” I said with a chuckle, though I wasn’t so sure they’d actually stick me in the heir’s class after that unforgettable conversation. “I assume we’ll be free to go home after lessons.”

The next couple of hours passed in a blur of introductions. I met a ton of new people—but thanks to Miss Elvira’s classes, I recognized almost all of them on sight. So, really, it wasn’t too bad.

When Witowt finally appeared with his entourage, the room practically lit up. They’d all been trained to see the Imperial family as the foundation of the state and the cornerstone of peace and prosperity.

As I watched the heir make his way slowly from group to group, I tensed up.

What’s this move? Last time, he just took the comfiest seat and ignored everyone. What changed? Is he looking for me? That’d explain why Glinov is with him. Are they working together now?

“Your Highness,” someone said as the Imperial scion approached, and we all stood to greet him.

“Good evening,” Witowt said pleasantly, his tone warm. His eyes settled on me. “How are you enjoying the ball tonight?”

“Thank you,” I replied, holding his cold gaze. “The evening’s been wonderful, as always.”

“Appreciate the kind words,” he said with a slight smirk, then turned his gaze aside. “I hope you’ll all enjoy yourselves tonight. There are some… changes to the usual program.”

“Did I miss something?” Godimir whispered in my ear. “I thought you two left things in a good place last time. He even granted your request with the Guard—that has to count for something. So what happened?”

“The thing is,” I murmured back, “Witowt was so ‘kind’ that he fulfilled a request I never made.”

Godimir stared at me for a moment, eyes wide. Then I saw it click in his mind, and he nodded slowly.

“Thought so,” he whispered, shaking his head. “You looked wound up that day… I figured it was just nerves—or George’s death—but this…”

“We’ll talk later,” I said to Ogneyer. “This isn’t the time or place.”

He nodded in understanding.

The rest of the evening—and part of the night—flew by. Turns out, there were changes to the program. The youth portion of the ball started much earlier than usual, and it lasted way longer, too. I spent most of it dancing with what felt like half the girls in the Empire. I would have taken a break, but with Maria and Anna watching me like hawks, I just didn’t dare.

When the dancing finally ended, an elderly man with a completely bald head and a meticulously groomed white beard appeared on a tall white dais.

As it turned out, this man was the Principal of the Imperial School—meaning he was in charge of all I.S. branches. And he was delighted to announce the formation of a specialized class for upper-level students that would be studying alongside the heir to the Empire, Witowt the Second.

“I will now read the names of the students admitted to this new class, drawn from schools across our mighty and glorious Empire,” the man declared, and the hall erupted in applause.

“Vladimir Zateikin!” he announced grandly.

Aha, starting with the heir’s inner circle, I thought, as the director kept reading out mostly familiar names. Not surprising. Witowt had already assembled a set group around him—it would have been weird if they weren’t included. But what about me?

“Ivan Morozov,” I heard my name mid-way through the list—and I couldn’t decide whether to be pleased or worried.

“Godimir Ogneyer,” the man continued.

Okay, pleased, I decided, finding Ogneyer’s gaze and giving him a silent nod.

“That concludes the list,” the director said once the last name was read. More applause followed. But I frowned.

Sixty names? Wasn’t that a bit much for the imperial heir’s class? Or was I missing something?

“Oh yes!” the Principal added suddenly. “In the interest of enhancing the training and upbringing of the next generation, and by decree of His Majesty Izasław IV, a new institution will open near Antonovka—the Advanced Imperial Military Academy. All students listed have already been officially enrolled.”

The hall burst into applause once more.

I groaned internally.

Military academy?! A cadet?! What the hell did I do to deserve this?!

Chapter 8

“I SEE YOU’RE NOT TOO THRILLED about being assigned to the heir’s class,” my father said thoughtfully after we returned from the imperial ball and settled into his study. “Afraid he’ll want payback for your refusal to yield at the tournament?”

“I’m not thrilled,” I agreed, looking him straight in the eye. “Witowt will absolutely try to get even for what happened—that much I’ve never doubted. The entitlement and superiority he’s been granted by birth won’t allow him to stay within the bounds of decency. And unfortunately, I’ll have to find some way to smooth things over—at least to reach neutral ground. It’s not wise to be at odds with someone who’ll rule the state someday. Especially when childhood grudges tend to be the most stubborn—they can last a lifetime.”

“Then again,” I thought darkly, “if Witowt keeps acting like a complete lunatic, there’s no way to normalize anything. I’ll just have to live with being on his bad side. Fine. I’m not going to grovel for his favor, that’s for damn sure.” But still… part of me hoped this was just emotional fallout—that he blew up back then and has since come to his senses. Hah. Right. Optimistic, aren’t we? More likely, he’d been waiting for the day he can throttle me with his own hands.

“And what do you think about the Academy?” Father continued.

“I think there’s nothing good in it for me,” I answered honestly. “But I don’t have the right to refuse.”

He raised an eyebrow in silent question, and I clarified.

“Trying to weasel out of an ‘honor’ like that would end badly. It would damage my image, hurt my growing business, and brand me as a pariah in imperial society. People would look at me like I was insane—turning down the chance to befriend the heir? They don’t know about our history. And if I skip all the ‘fun’ in that academy, I’ll lose out on a whole web of personal connections with the country’s future elite. That’s not something I can afford. Left unchecked, that gap will become a real threat—ten or twenty years from now, I’ll find myself up against an informal alliance of people who will have inherited Witowt’s dislike for me.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Temnikov said, shaking his head. “I was asking how you feel about the idea of placing noble children into an institution like that.”

“I think the very phrase ‘military academy’ is already a red flag,” I said with a sigh. “I have no interest in wasting time on pointless drills when I could be continuing my education at the Imperial School while running my business. And being in the same place as the heir—especially one who’s hostile—and where he can officially issue orders? That’s the last thing I want.”

At that moment, I remembered how I once pointedly told Witowt he had no rank insignia on his shoulders. My mood darkened even more.

Was this really all just to teach me a lesson? I wondered. Or was that too much, even for him? Surely the Emperor wasn’t an idiot—he must have a reason for arranging for his son’s education to follow a specific scenario… or maybe not? Witowt did talk his father into throwing the Guard at me, after all.

“You were right about the drills,” Father said, interrupting my thoughts. “From what I hear, Izasław wants his son to go through a full-on basic training course. They say the program will be brutal—designed to turn the students into proper men. No exceptions. Well, maybe some for the heir.”

“Basic training?” I grimaced.

So it was army life all over again? Demons swallow them whole, I’d already broken in my boots once! Why the hell did I have to go through it all again?!

“Seen anything like that among Colonel Gurinov’s men?” Father asked, reading my expression. “Not exactly pleasant. I get it. But like you said, this isn’t something you can just walk away from—you’d lose face. And you were also right about the networking. These won’t just be polite hellos and goodbyes anymore. Once you’ve gone through hardship and trials side by side, those ties will go deep. Just like what happened with the warriors who went with you into the Wasteland.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, puzzled.

“You don’t know?” Father smirked. “There was an actual contest for those guard positions. The warriors from Morshansk who fought demons with you—they saw what you could do. They came back with nothing but praise for my youngest son. You’ve really made an impression.”

“Is this his subtle way of sneaking spies into my personal security team?” I thought, understandably suspicious. Well, I’d just have to see what he had planned before making any decisions.

Father kept going for quite a while after that—trying to sell me on the benefits of cadet training, pointing out every potential advantage. I half-listened, doing my best not to miss anything important, but my thoughts were elsewhere.

How the hell was I supposed to act in there, Demons take his guts? Would I even manage to build some kind of bridge with Witowt?

“All right,” Father said, noticing I was beginning to tune out. “I see you understand everything well enough on your own. On my part, I’ll offer some help with your magical training. Starting tomorrow, and until the beginning of basic training, you’ll be studying under Professor Petius.”

“Like last time?” I asked sarcastically, thinking back to those early months at the estate after my oh-so-glorious return—when someone had gone out of their way to sabotage my education.

“No,” said Prince Yegor without a shred of embarrassment. “This time, he’ll be training you personally. I have no desire for the names of Temnikovs and Morozovs to be dragged through the mud because of your ignorance of basic magical principles.”

I wanted to tell him that if I was “ignorant,” it was his own fault to begin with—but I kept my mouth shut. He knew as much already.

* * *

The next morning, Petius found me in the training hall. He pointed to the door and said,

“Come with me.”

I followed the professor to a slightly larger room—one meant for combat magic.

Why did we have to move at all? I thought to myself. Was I not good enough to demonstrate my skills in the last room?

“From this day until your enrollment at the military academy, you’re officially under my direct instruction,” said the mage—repeating what I already knew. After a brief pause, he added, “To select the proper materials, I need to assess your current level of knowledge. Both theory and practice.”

Once again receiving no reaction from me, Professor Petius frowned slightly.

What did he expect? I thought. That after sabotaging my training, I’d fall at his feet in gratitude? Seriously?

Realizing he wouldn’t get anywhere with that tone, the professor switched tactics and asked,

“Tell me, Ivan—how does a mage create a spell?”

I didn’t immediately get what he wanted from me, but eventually answered,

“A mage casts a spell using four parameters—strength, desire, will, and authority. A hereditary mage can create spells without tools.”

“Good,” Petius muttered, chewing on his thin lips. “Now cast a fireball. I trust you’re familiar with that one?”

So that’s your little test, I thought with irritation, nodding slightly. Trying to see if I knew the difference between a constructed and a formed spell? Fine—I could do this.

As we were taught in the Mage League, a constructed spell was created using authority—by invoking runes, diagrams, or ritual magic. Formed spells, by contrast, were created with pure will—guided by mental imagery. But only hereditary mages with a bloodline gift could manage that, and in rare cases, archmages from common families, too.

Petius examined my constructed fireball from all angles, gave it a critical once-over, then nodded thoughtfully.

“Good. Now form it using only will.”

“Fireball”, I recalled from one lecture, “is considered one of the simplest spells—*but only when cast using runes and diagrams. Forming it with will alone is much harder. Most mages can’t manage it, especially early on.”

I closed my eyes, focused my power into my hand, and carefully imagined the fireball igniting in my palm—the warmth licking my skin.

When I opened my eyes, I saw the result—the fireball was about half the size of the one I’d constructed previously.

No surprise there.

Forming spells using nothing but desire, strength, and will is difficult. Constructs like those were always weaker than those built with authority. History across both worlds proved it time and again—knowledge and skill always beat raw power.

“And what can we conclude from that demonstration?” asked the professor, watching me intently.

“That spells constructed through authority are more powerful and destructive than those formed by will,” I said dryly.

I wasn’t refusing to study with Petius, but that didn’t mean I had to like him.

“And why is that?” he asked. “Any thoughts?”

“I’d say it’s because constructed spells are essentially a set of ready-made formulae—anyone with talent and enough strength can use them. But to form a spell without authority, you need a vivid imagination.” I paused, a thought occurring to me. “Actually, if you think about it, when people first started using external tools—runes, rituals, and so on—there probably wasn’t much difference between formed and constructed spells. But over the centuries, mages kept refining their formulae, passing them down and improving them generation after generation. That made constructed spells stronger and more efficient—requiring minimal energy.”

“Hm. Quite right,” Petius said with a note of surprise. “Your brothers, when faced with similar questions, always insisted that their will-formed spells should be stronger, and the problem was just that they ‘hadn’t mastered them yet.’”

Getting no response from me, the professor continued calmly:

“Let’s move on to the next question. Tell me—why do mages need a staff?”

“It’s mostly used by non-hereditary mages to amplify their willpower so they can cast spells,” I replied.

“Not quite,” said Petius with a faint smirk, “but you’re in the ballpark. A staff enhances the attribute that hereditary mages pompously call ‘will.’ And yes, it does allow ordinary mages to cast spells. But what about hereditary mages? They use staves, too—almost all of them. Especially in combat. Any idea why?”

“I suppose it’s just much easier and more convenient to form spells with a staff,” I offered.

“Correct. Looks like you’ve got the theory down,” Petius said, and then added thoughtfully, “Before we move on to practice, let me ask you one more thing. What’s the difference between a fireball spell cast by an experienced hereditary mage using authority, and one cast without it?”

I almost answered right away—something about imagination—but held back. This question had a hook in it.

“I can only guess,” I said after a moment. “Maybe there’s barely any difference? I mean, an experienced mage gets so used to casting the rune-based version that, after enough practice, it just comes out naturally—even without the authority.”

“Well then,” said the professor in a satisfied tone, as if he’d been personally teaching me for years, “if your practical skills are as good as your theory, Prince Yegor has nothing to worry about. The point of my questions today was to nudge you toward understanding that will—while important—isn’t the be-all and end-all. No matter how strong or talented you are as a hereditary mage, someone who simply understands the nature of magic and its laws better can still defeat you. Will is a last resort—for when you have nothing else left. In the modern world, authority reigns supreme.”

“What about bloodline abilities?” I countered, seizing my chance to get a word in. “Those are formed purely through strength, will, and desire.”

“That’s true,” the mage replied with a skeptical tone. “Bloodline magic can be quite handy, and it’s certainly low-cost energy-wise. But tell me—how much can you really do with just raw will?”

Without hesitating, I raised my hand and launched a few small ice shards at a nearby target, then followed up with a solid “ice spear,” and finally summoned a sizable “ice boulder.”

That last one was hard—pulling it off only became possible after the incident in the dungeon with the iced-over glass. And even now, the boulder flew slowly, awkwardly.

“Well?” Petius said with a shrug. “Aside from decent accuracy—credit to Theophane for that—I didn’t see anything particularly impressive. Those ice shards are weak—they won’t pierce even basic shielding. The spear? Not bad, could be useful. But what were you even trying to do with that oversized chunk of ice? Sure, it didn’t take much power, but it took you longer to form than the others. In that time, you could have cast something much stronger and deadlier.”

“I disagree,” I said, shaking my head. “I’ve only just started training that spell, and already it could catch opponents off guard—they won’t be expecting anything like it. And besides, my ice abilities are growing stronger every month. Don’t forget, before he died, George could form massive wings, conjure shields, and do all sorts of impressive things with his aura.”

“Maybe so. But what matters to me right now is your training as a classic mage.”

Gotcha, old man, I thought smugly. Don’t dismiss my bloodline gifts so fast—will might not be king, but it ain’t chopped liver, either.

Truth was, I’d been getting more and more pleased with my inherited talents. I could now do more than just flashy icicles, spears, and boulders. I could blast a meter-long stream of something like liquid freon at an enemy, and summon a small Ice Shield in front of myself. Sure, I still had to concentrate hard before casting them, but I believed with enough training, I’d eventually be able to snap them off instantly. In fact, I had every intention of learning how to freeze someone at a distance. After all, I’d been getting some very suggestive flashbacks about a certain character called Sub-Zero from Mortal Kombat. Funny how that comparison only hit me recently—maybe because I used to think of myself as a “null” or just hadn’t taken my magic seriously.

“Show me what else you can do,” Petius continued.

I cast a basic Spherical Shield from classical magic—one that blocked both physical and magical attacks—and followed it up with an “air punch” spell. That was the extent of my practical repertoire.

Not that it was surprising—some students didn’t manage even that much after a full year at the Mage League. I did know how to cast several more constructs… the trouble was actually pulling them off.

“Not much,” the professor grimaced. “You’re a lot stronger in theory than in practice.”

“Well, what do you expect?” I snapped. “At the Mage League, that’s all they managed to teach me. And only because I was already doing well with meditation and magic absorption.”

“You’re still training those?” Petius asked.

“Of course. Though absorption’s still a work in progress,” I admitted.

“Good that you realize it,” he muttered, then after a pause asked, “So no one really worked on practice with you?”

“They did,” I said, frowning. “How else do you think I can cast these spells? They didn’t just invent themselves.”

“Then they did a piss-poor job,” the professor said flatly. “Your Fireball’s weak, your Air Punch is laughable, and your Spherical Shield’ is basically a sieve. This level of preparation is unacceptable.”

I wasn’t planning on defending myself. The mage was probably right—this level was unacceptable for a noble heir. Although, when it came to Fireball, I disagreed. That one was solid. Even back in the League, they said it was good. And the Shield had held up against a spell from a full-fledged combat mage, so things weren’t quite as bleak as he was painting them.

“We’ll see what you can manage in a sparring match,” said Petius. “It’s one thing to cast spells from a stationary position, and another to do it in a fight.”

I nodded, and the man added,

“With one condition—you’re not allowed to use your Shiki-Cho.”

“And what exactly am I supposed to use then?” I snapped—just in time for a basic Water Bullet to fly at me.

I stepped aside, letting the attack pass, and fired a Fireball back at the professor. He easily blocked it with a textbook Spherical Shield and launched a Fireball of his own.

Even without spirit energy, I was still fast—thanks to all the physical training—so I managed to dodge the sudden strike. After I avoided a few more spells the same way, Petius switched tactics and sent a volley of Fire Arrows my way.

This time, dodging wasn’t an option—I had to trust my Spherical Shield and hope for the best.

He called this thing a sieve, a smug thought crossed my mind as I withstood another burst of arrows.

Petius, apparently annoyed that my shield wasn’t as pathetic as he’d made it sound, upped the ante.

This time, he launched a smaller, homing fireball.

Now that definitely wasn’t a beginner-level spell, I thought, irritated, as I threw up another Spherical Shield.

I managed to leap back just in time as Petius’ modified fireball exploded, shattering my defense and burning my crossed forearms.

After a few more attacks like that, the pain in my scorched hands pushed me over the edge. I hurled five ice shards at him in rapid succession.

No one said bloodline magic was off-limits, I told myself.

Petius didn’t let it go unanswered.

Sensing the danger, I jumped high, letting several Wind Blades slice harmlessly beneath me.

“Has he lost his mind?! That spell is seriously dangerous!” I thought, now fully pissed off. I countered with a pair of Ice Spears, one of which actually broke through his shield.

“Take that,” I thought, landing—just in time to see several homing fireballs coming my way.

“If not for the duel conditions, you’d be in real trouble,” I thought, angered, and as the spells closed in, I formed a Spherical Shield using my bloodline powers.

The professor’s fireballs crashed into the solid ice barrier that rose from the floor—and failed to break through. After a pause, Petius called out:

“Stop.”

He stepped around the frozen wall, gave me a look, and after chewing his thin lips for a moment, said,

“Apart from your bloodline abilities, you didn’t show anything remarkable. That’s very disappointing. Take the rest of the morning off. We’ll meet back here after lunch.”

Without letting me get a single word in, Professor Petius turned and left the room, limping slightly.

I remained in the hall, seething with indignation at his words.

Still, I thought, staring at the icy spherical wall, he did teach me how to project a real defense today… Now I just need to figure out how I did it—and whether I could do it again.

Chapter 9

“NERVOUS?” MY MENTOR ASKED, eyeing me closely.

“Why would I be?” I replied, shrugging as I slowly bit into a fresh éclair with a creamy filling and thick chocolate glaze. I followed it up with a sip of delicious fruit tea.

I didn’t know why, but in this body, I often craved candy—even though I’d never really had a sweet tooth back in my old life. Sure, I might have accepted a piece of candy or a couple chocolate bars when kids offered them, but I never sought them out for myself. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d walked into a shop just to buy sweets. I’d always been more of a jerky guy—could put away entire trays of the stuff. Probably, the sweet tooth came with Ivan’s adolescent body.

“Well, think about it,” Theophane leaned back in his chair. “You’re heading into a new environment—a military one at that—and you have no idea what to expect. Isn’t that enough reason to be anxious?”

Sitting across from me, Theophane looked rather striking. He was dressed in an elegant grey three-piece suit with a crisp white shirt, with a wide steel-colored tie and a matching handkerchief poking casually from the breast pocket. Polished dark brown leather shoes finished the look. With a modern haircut and a well-trimmed beard, he looked easily twenty years younger. His solid build gave off quiet power—it all came together to form a pretty impressive image. When I first saw him in this getup, I couldn’t help but tell him he looked like the kind of grandpa who could steal someone’s grandma. For that, I got a playful smack to the back of the head, despite my status, accompanied by a mock scolding.

“Nothing to be nervous about,” I said as I finished chewing. “After all the training in the Wasteland with you, I doubt there’s anything left that could scare me—least of all some group of my peers.”

“Now that I disagree with,” Theophane said. “If the whole class turns on you, you’ll be singing a different tune pretty quick. You’re the one who told me once that humans are social creatures—they can’t survive in isolation. And don’t forget, one of your main tasks is to build strong friendships with as many of your classmates as possible—and to repair your relationship with Witowt.”

“I said that? Me?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “That humans are social creatures?”

“You did,” he said with complete confidence.

“If you say so,” I muttered, unconvinced—I had no memory of that. “Anyway, even if you’re right, I doubt I’ll be totally alone. At the very least, I’ve got Godimir. Everything’s easier when you have a friend.”

“You sure about that?” he asked, his tone suddenly somehow off. “If the head of his House gives the order, he’ll stand with Witowt—whether he likes it or not. Unless Witowt goes really off the rails,” he added after a beat. “But your goals and Godimir’s aren’t the same. His father is the commandant, and let me remind you—he reports directly to the Emperor, bypassing every other authority. Your friend won’t want to put his House’s reputation at risk.”

“You’ve got a point,” I admitted. “But I don’t think Godimir would turn his back on me. He’s not like that. I’m his first real friend. If we were older, maybe I’d have doubts—but you of all people know how stubborn and loyal teenage boys can be.”

“Oooh,” Theophane said, feigning surprise. “Before I met you, I had no idea.”

We both laughed, then he continued:

“And how are you holding up, by the way? You spent the whole week tearing around the company building, barely sleeping two hours a night.”

“I’m fine,” I said, shrugging. “You’re the one who taught me meditation. You know how good I am at it. Sure, I’m tired—but not the kind of tired that makes you want to die.”

“Did you finish everything you planned?” he asked, trying to sound casual. But I knew for a fact he’d been closely monitoring everything happening at the company.

Old fox, I thought with a grin. Why not just ask me outright instead of sniffing around and playing dumb? What’s that saying—habit is second nature?

“Not everything, sadly. You saw how little time I had. First, I had to go over all the massive changes that had transpired while I was gone. And even though I knew the key points from our calls, it was still a lot to process. After that, I spent a long time working on the dating site’s development. You saw how many ways we’ve already come up with to monetize it?” I added proudly. “Those aren’t small sums—there’s a nice steady flow coming into the company account.”

I took a sip to wet my throat and went on.

“So yeah, I’ve got a decent handle on the company’s core operations, but I didn’t get to finish everything. I skimmed the rest—just hit the highlights. Before I knew it, time was up and I had to head to the academy. No idea when I’ll get to come back…”

My thoughts drifted to a week ago—the day I finally passed my last exam with Professor Petius.

Over the course of our intensive joint sessions, he brought me up to speed quite well on all the basic knowledge any mage should have—occasionally revealing curious details that, for whatever reason, the Mage League had never bothered to mention. He also helped me work through the mistakes I was making when casting spells I already knew. Now, I had no problem at all with basic spells like air punch and water strike, and I was even managing the more advanced wind scythes. That meant I’d successfully cast spells from three of the four elemental schools—fire, wind, and water. Unfortunately, as before, nothing from the earth element ever worked for me. Seemed like I was completely incompatible with that domain. It happens, although usually mages at the Second Tier Adept rank could manage at least the simplest spells from all four elements.

“Shame,” said Petius at the end of another fruitless session. “I can see clearly that you’re doing everything right. Your rune structure and sequencing are textbook.”

“Why’s it a shame?” I asked. “Does mastering all four elements give a mage some kind of advantage? Do they get stronger?”

“Eh, not really,” the professor said, shrugging. “Most mages specialize in one or two elements that suit them best and leave the rest alone. Even basic spells take a lot of time, energy, and effort to master. A focused specialist is usually stronger than someone trying to balance all four elements evenly. But earth spells—at least the basic ones—make for excellent defensive tools.”

“Never seen anyone use them,” I said skeptically. “And I’ve seen plenty of mages in the Wasteland.”

Instead of replying, he casually formed a tall, sturdy stone wall in front of himself, then dispelled it ten seconds later.

“Probably because earth spells burn a lot of mana,” he mused. “In any case, you’ve got ice—which is far more efficient.”

Once I passed my home exam, Father finally allowed me to travel to the capital under reinforced Temnikov guard—just to get a proper look at how my creation was doing. Sure, I’d been getting updates from Andrei over the phone, but I needed to see it all for myself. And remind everyone who really ran the place.

At some point, Byshkovets seemed to have convinced himself that the company’s growth under his management was some sort of inevitability, not a product of luck or outside input. So I had to bring Theophane in—he quietly brought the overconfident young director back down to earth and gave the company’s momentum a fresh boost.

The thing was, I started sensing a shift in Andrei. The obligation to report everything to a noble-born kid began to wear on him. He was tired of detailed status updates, annoyed by my instructions, and increasingly frustrated with having to follow them. He’d begun to believe the success was all his own doing. That he was the real mastermind. That without me, he’d still have found a way to make it big.

Sure, I played a small part. I only pulled him out of a certain… unmentionable situation, invested significant capital, helped him secure a sleek, prestigious building, and personally proposed one of our most lucrative projects—one that brought in high-value clients and a steady stream of revenue. But, hey, no big deal.

Still, psychology’s a bitch. It was hard for a grown man to accept that a literal child he had to answer to might know more than him in some areas—areas he spent his entire day working on. A guy like that will always believe he’s the architect of his own success, and that I just happened to be there.

But reality was what it was. Andrei owed everything he had now to me. I didn’t downplay his achievements—I was genuinely grateful he turned out to be the kind of ox who could drag the overloaded cart of our rapidly growing company uphill. But that didn’t mean I was going to let anything slide.

Life had already taught me—give them an inch, and they’ll take a whole freaking mile. Show weakness, and soon no one would follow your orders. No. Like it or not, this company was my creation. My first profitable venture. The first cash flow generator of House Morozov’s heir.

So, after I gave a single subtle nudge to my mentor, all of Andrei’s irritation and grumbling vanished. The staff, too, suddenly became very polite and attentive. No backtalk. They took careful notes on all my suggestions. And this time, I didn’t even have to scare anyone.

Theophane handled it.

And so, the time I’d carved out for personal affairs flew by in a flash. With my mentor constantly shadowing me, I inspected our new headquarters—now located in the business center on Marchlewsky Avenue—and saying I was impressed with what had been accomplished would be an understatement.

In a surprisingly short span of time, Byshkovets had managed to relocate most of the company’s bloated departments there—and did so without a drop in performance, despite the flood of incoming orders. According to Andrei himself, organizing the move had been made significantly easier thanks to Theophane and his team, who oversaw every stage of the process and ensured deadlines were met with military precision. The building now housed our subsidiary project teams and all our server infrastructure.

But my mind drifted from business back to a different topic—those men Theophane had spent so long recruiting into the Morozov family security force. Or rather… to one particular recruit with a very striking and voluptuous figure.

“Yup, the hormones are definitely kicking in,” I thought with a groan. And just in time for me to ship off to an all-male academy. I fervently hoped I’d manage to keep a lid on these fluctuating feelings and avoid snapping at everyone over every trifle.

“Anything in particular I should keep an eye on while you’re away?” Theophane asked, pulling out a small notepad and a fancy gold-nibbed pen.

Ever the magpie, I thought, watching him, and replied,

“There is, actually—one thing I’d like you to look into.”

The thought had come to me a while ago, but with everything else going on, it had completely slipped my mind. For some reason, it popped back up only now.

I could only hope they wouldn’t keep me locked up at the academy for long, and that I’ll be able to check in on the results myself.

“I want you to vet the company staff for loyalty. We’ve hired a ton of new people recently, and it wouldn’t surprise me if some of them are working for more than just us. Pay close attention to Byshkovets—he’s probably surrounded by Father’s people. You’ll need to gently extract him from that web. Same goes for the department heads.”

Theophane nodded, scribbling notes.

“Also, keep an eye on the launch of the Kufar project. If everything stays on track, it should go live in about two months. Judging by the attention MatchUp got, this one’s likely to draw just as many eyes. Which also means sabotage is a real possibility.”

“Anything else?” he asked, glancing down as he finished writing.

“That should be it,” I said after a moment’s thought. “Can’t think of anything else right now, but if I do—I’ll let you know.”

Once I finished my dessert and pushed the empty plate away, Theophane checked his watch and said:

“Let’s go.”

While one of the guards at the next table took care of the check, we made our way leisurely toward the exit.

The academy was in the outskirts of Antonovka, about forty-five minutes’ drive from the capital. After a long stretch down the highway, we veered off into the woods and, after a bit of winding through back roads, came upon a sign saying “Imperial Cadet Academy: 1000 feet.”

“Pretty place,” Theophane remarked, watching the towering hundred-year-old pines roll past the window. “Nice location, too.”

Snapped out of my own thoughts, I leaned forward and glanced through the windshield—sure enough, we were almost there. The large parking lot ahead was crammed with vehicles of all kinds, surrounded by bustling crowds of people.

Damn, that’s a lot of send-offs, I thought. With just my three cars and one mentor, I looked kind of… underdressed.

“Let’s go,” Theophane said after our driver found a spot and pulled in.

“You stay here,” he told the man in the front seat. “Tell the others to remain at their posts. I doubt we’ll need you any time soon—there’s plenty of security on site already. Best to have less people bumping into each other.”

“It’s ‘fewer,’ not ‘less,’” I muttered, recalling a grammar lesson from school as Theophane hauled my travel bag from the trunk.

“Well, excuse me, we ain’t graduated from no fancy Imperial school,” he said, deliberately butchering his pronunciation. “We be speakin’ how we speakin’.”

“Hey now, I didn’t say anything!” I said quickly, grinning.

“Good,” he replied, grinning as he corrected his phrasing. “The fewer, the better. Off we go.”

He rolled my bag along the fresh tarmac. It really was a roomy bag—even my combat saber fit inside.

I walked beside my broad-shouldered mentor toward a ten-foot rectangular arch with reinforced gates that opened automatically as we approached, casually scanning the crowd gathered in the parking lot.

All familiar faces, I thought with satisfaction. Those hours of holiday research into my future classmates were paying off—I’ll be stuck with them for two years, after all.

At some point during that information hunt, I hit a wall. Between training with Yamashita to stay in shape, studying with Professor Petius, and entertaining my bored sisters at the estate, there just wasn’t enough time to dig through all the data myself.

So I got clever—delegated the entire intel-gathering operation to Theophane and our newly forming House Security unit.

And it was the best move I could have made. Not only did they deliver neat, to-the-point summaries about each classmate, their House’s power players, and magical or economic specializations—they also saved me a ton of time, which I could pour into study and training instead.

No matter which direction I looked across the parking lot, the scene was the same. Every cadet-to-be was surrounded by a tight circle of family members, giving them what they surely thought were profoundly important last words. Stuff like hang in there, don’t be a coward, don’t disgrace the House, be a man, show them what the Sedlaks are made of, and so on.

The longer I watched, the more a sinking feeling grew in my gut.

“What’s wrong?” Theophane asked, catching my expression.

“I think one of the worst-case scenarios is coming true,” I said grimly. “Looks like we’re in for full-on basic training. There’s no way they’d be saying goodbye like this if they expected to see their kids again tonight. No—looks like we’re getting locked in for a while. At least a month. Worst-case? The whole damn academic year.”

“I think you’re right,” my mentor said, glancing around. “But don’t let it get to you. The longest boot camp I remember was about thirty days. And considering your age, they’ll probably cut that down for your group. Besides, the new I.S. trimester isn’t far off—they’ll have to get you back to regular schooling soon. They’re not going to leave the future elite of the Empire uneducated, after all.”

“I hope things play out the way you’re saying,” I nodded. “There’s a hell of a lot to do, and now I’ve got to waste time here.”

“Then don’t waste it,” Theophane said seriously. “If you’ve got free time, use it to train and grow. Whether it’s magic, martial arts, or academics—doesn’t matter. The point is to keep moving forward. If you stop, it’s the beginning of the end. Regression is inevitable. You’re at the age when knowledge soaks in like water into a sponge—this is the time to use that to the fullest,” he added quickly. “You won’t get another window like this for personal growth. After the academy, you’ll have other things to deal with—higher education, running your enterprises, social life, women, and everything else. So put in the work now. And don’t you dare slack off.”

“I’ll do my best,” I nodded, dutifully inspired.

“Good,” he said with a smirk, then added, “Still strange your dear Yegor didn’t give you any real info about the upcoming training. Looks like the rest of the world knows more than you do.”

“What do you mean, he didn’t?” I raised an eyebrow, amused again by how Theophane insisted on calling my father by his first name without any titles. “He gave me a list of stuff every cadet needs, and told me there was no confirmed duration for our stay. So we should be ready for anything. Sure, the timing sucked—he gave me all that right after Petius’s exam—but I get it. He wanted to buy a chunk of our company’s shares, promised major orders from his House and generous investments. I wasn’t having it. We’ve got enough—funds, clients, projects. We’re already choking on the slice of pie we managed to snag, and he wants more. He painted a whole vision of growth and suggested I hire some super-talented manager as general director. Said he’d send me the guy’s profile even without a share purchase deal. But why would I need that kind of person? A spy in the executive suite? No, thanks!”

“Well, maybe you should have hired him,” Theophane said, doubtfully. “Better a known spy than a hidden one. That might have calmed Yegor down. Right now, he’ll probably send someone we’d never suspect.”

“I already have a CEO,” I reminded him. “And he’s doing just fine.”

“Yeah, but this manager doesn’t have to replace Byshkovets. Make him a consultant. Let him give Andrei a few tips. If he’s so experienced, maybe he’ll actually help whip the place into shape. Honestly? Things aren’t quite as smooth as they look from your perspective. A seasoned operator wouldn’t hurt.”

“Uh…” I paused, considering. “Maybe you’ve got a point.”

“If you don’t think you can keep an eye on it, I will,” Theophane said. “I’ll talk to Yegor, and I’ll make sure Byshkovets gets the message.”

“You think he’ll play ball?” I asked, skeptical.

“Why wouldn’t he?” Theophane shrugged. “Besides, I like calling him. He gets so delightfully annoyed every time.”

“Well then, let’s do it,” I agreed. “But keep a close watch on who this manager puts in charge of what.”

“Obviously,” Theophane nodded.

Talking like that, we ambled toward the open gates.

I looked around.

Flanking the broad archway was a tall, solid red-brick wall. A few meters to either side were two long-term defensive emplacements—camouflaged bunkers, or pillboxes, as people called them. Activating Wolf Eyes, I immediately saw the heavy magical defenses layered across the wall and the bunkers.

Not exactly surprising, I thought. This place was housing the imperial heir and the children of some extremely powerful families. I wondered how much electronic security they had… it must have been plenty.

I turned my gaze toward the figures just beyond the gate. There were five people, but two of them clearly stood out.

The younger one had his arms folded and wore a distinctive ring on his finger. He looked ahead with a bored expression.

That was the academy commander—Count Aleksey Grozov, I recalled, recognizing one of the youngest Archmages in the Empire. My eyes shifted to the second man, who tensed a little as we approached. Deputy Commander Joseph Krom. A Hero and mage. A commoner—indicated by the small wand holstered at his side. Probably capable of basic spells, but not much good in combat magic. Then again, that wasn’t his specialty. His physical abilities were probably more than sufficient for the role.

“Good afternoon, Master Theophane,” Krom said, looking at my mentor with faint disdain. “You’re looking well.”

“And to you, Master Joseph—may your health hold,” Theophane replied with a friendly chuckle. “Quite the post you’ve landed, I must say—looks good on you.”

Krom shifted his gaze to me.

“So this is your student?” he asked. “Ivan Morozov, I presume?”

“Good afternoon,” I said, taking my bag from Theophane. “That’s correct.”

“Ready to begin your training?” the militant asked.

“I am,” I nodded.

“Good. Say your goodbyes and head inside,” Krom said, gesturing off to the side.

I silently shook Theophane’s hand, then walked confidently toward a group of boys gathered on some benches.

Nearby stood a broad-shouldered man with a folder in hand, who gave me a stern look as I approached.

“Name?”

“Ivan Morozov.”

“All right.” He marked something down. “For now, take a seat here.” He pointed to the empty spots. “Someone will come to collect your things. You’ll find them in your assigned room later. Any questions?”

“No,” I shook my head. Pleased with my answer, he stepped away.

“Hey everyone,” I said, stepping up to the boys. A chorus of half-hearted greetings followed. I walked through the group, shaking hands and matching names to faces from memory. Then I took a seat on one of the empty benches.

About fifteen minutes later, when the number of kids who’d been let in reached around twenty, my phone finally rang.

“Yo!” I answered. “Took you long enough. Couldn’t pack an extra pair of underwear ahead of time? Had to go back for them?”

“Hey,” said Godimir, completely unfazed by my jab, clearly hyped up. “We only just got here. Where are you?”

“I’ve been inside for ages, man. Thought you weren’t coming.”

“Asshole!” Ogneyer snapped and hung up.

Less than five minutes later, my mildly annoyed friend dropped onto the bench beside me.

“I swear I’m done with your dumb jokes,” he said first thing. “One day I’ll dish it back, and don’t you dare act offended.”

“What, that was a joke?” I said with mock innocence. “Honestly, I figured you’d get caught up saying goodbye in the parking lot.”

“Why would I?” he huffed.

“Well, everyone else had their families huddled around them like they were sending them off to war.”

Somewhere off to the side, someone let out a nervous cough.

“Aw, scared of that idea?” I thought, eyeing the pale boy out of the corner of my eye. Couldn’t blame him. Watching all those tearful goodbyes made me wonder the same thing. Maybe there was something to it, and some folks already knew?

I glanced around at the brooding, hunched-over boys who looked like a flock of ruffled sparrows.

Most of them were probably terrified about being pulled away from home for the first time. Ripped from mommy’s apron strings, thrown into the unknown, expected to not just survive, but impress the imperial heir… No wonder they were rattled. The uncertainty and the pressure—both scared them.

“You sure they’re not actually keeping us here for six months or longer?” Godimir asked, fixing me with a serious look. “My dad said he had no idea how long we’ll be here—it’s all experimental, they’re still figuring out the system. But he did say we’re staying for at least the first trimester.”

“Well, then that’s how it is,” I said. “Hopefully they’ll send us home for breaks, and after basic training we can commute to school. Anyway—want to go meet the others?”

“Hey, everyone,” Ogneyer called, waving. “I already know all of you, by the way. This guy here’s the one who spent the last two years wandering the Wasteland, making friends with demons instead of people.”

“Demons?” I repeated. “Is this payback for the underwear comment?”

“That was just my warm-up,” he grinned.

The next half hour passed in easy chatter.

More boys kept arriving by the minute. The benches filled up fast, and still they came, until a loud command broke through the crowd.

“Form two lines!”

The murmuring group stood up and began shuffling toward a burly guy with sergeant stripes on his uniform.

They fell into formation without too much fuss—guess nearly all of them had been through P.E. in the Imperial school.

A line meant they were standing shoulder to shoulder on the same level—I remembered as much from my old army days. What about a column again? Right—stacked one behind the other, one-step spacing. That was it.

As I dug up what I thought were long-forgotten military basics, the boys’ chatter died off fast under the cold stare of the academy commander.

“They’re slow. And way too noisy,” Grozov said, more to the wind than to anyone specific, his voice flat as ice. “This is a military institution, not a ballroom.”

“They’re just green,” Krom said, scanning the boys with a squint. They shifted uncomfortably—clearly sensing something bad in his tone. Stroking his full mustache, he added weightily, “But that’s temporary.”

The commander gave a slow nod, pausing before he turned to the sergeant.

“Beast, you’re up.”

“Beast, eh?” I thought, eyeing the enormous man with a jagged scar crossing his neck. Now there was a name that fit. I wondered what earned him that one.

“Right turn!” the sergeant barked, and the kids clumsily pivoted. Not all in the right direction, of course, but they corrected fast enough.

“Yeah… they’ll need a lot of training,” the Archmage muttered in an ominous voice. Then the sergeant gave the next order.

“Forward march!”

“A-one! A-two! A-one-two-three!” he counted, trying to give our erratic movement some rhythm.

But most of the boys were clearly not used to marching—many couldn’t even figure out which foot to move when he called “one.” So Beast had to keep interjecting.

“Left! Left! One-two-three!”

What was the point of all this? I wondered, not bothering to fall into step—I didn’t want to accidentally stomp on the heel of the guy in front. Sixty boys, in a column of two—that was thirty lines. Even trained soldiers would struggle to keep formation that long. And these were a bunch of thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds. Wouldn’t it make more sense to just walk us there in a group, or reorganize into fives or something? Maybe they were trying to make a point—show us that we’re not at home anymore and drill the military mindset in as fast as possible.

We passed a long, neatly kept two-story building of white brick on one side and a cluster of smaller, uniform-colored structures on the other—those were clearly the dormitories.

“Halt!” the sergeant ordered once the front rank reached the big white building. After the last kid stopped, he added, “Right turn! File left into a single column—march!”

The boys at the front exchanged confused glances, unsure what to do. Beast, unbothered, walked up and gave a quick demo.

Two boys stepped out. Then two more. Then two more after that. A kind of human snake took shape, and pretty soon everyone figured it out—simple, clear, visual. Even they couldn’t mess it up.

Once we passed through the fairly large entrance hall, we turned off just before the wide staircase leading to the second floor and stepped through a carved door into another spacious room. But we didn’t stop—we kept moving until we reached the auditorium, as the sign on the door declared.

The room itself was a typical large hall, filled with rows of cushioned seats and a sizable stage with several tables set up on it.

“Looks like a movie theater,” Godimir muttered behind me, gesturing first at the ceiling-mounted projector, then at the white screen hanging on the stage wall.

Settling comfortably into the middle of one of the central rows, we waited to see what would happen next.

After a few minutes, the head of the academy, his deputy, and two unfamiliar men took the stage. They were followed by Witowt, who, after a silent nod from Grozov, stepped down and took a seat in the front row. The boys around me started whispering.

“Ahem. Quiet, please,” the head of the academy said into the mic, and once the room fell silent, he continued. “My name is Colonel Alexei Grozov. I’m the head of the Imperial Military Academy and your direct commanding officer for the duration of your training.”

He scanned the hall with a steady sharp gaze, then introduced Krom and the other two men. One was in charge of magical instruction, and the other was deputy for academic affairs.

So what did all of this mean? Were we continuing the Imperial School curriculum and getting training from League of Mages specialists to boot? That would be one hell of a schedule. And I wasn’t even factoring in any of the usual army junk yet.

“I want to stress that now that you’ve crossed the threshold of this academy, your health and safety fall entirely under our responsibility. For that reason, I expect all of you to strictly follow the safety protocols that will be relayed to you today by your commanding officers.”

He cast another chilly glance across the room before going on.

“Another key point. As of the moment the Emperor’s decree was signed, you all officially hold the rank of cadet. That comes with certain privileges—but more importantly, with duties. From this day until the end of your studies, you are required to follow the orders of your officers and superiors. I will not be entertaining any excuses for disobedience. There are those who give orders, and those who follow them. That’s the chain of command.”

He silenced the wave of murmuring with a sharp harrumph and pressed on.

“You’ll be split into three platoons of twenty-one cadets each. Each platoon will be divided into three squads of seven. Your squad and platoon leaders have already been assigned. After the briefing, I’ll introduce them to you. For now, Master Krom will go over your daily schedule.”

So, sixty-three cadets including Witowt? They added a few more to make the squads even? That made sense—it was easier when each group had the same number.

“Your daily schedule,” Krom began, his voice crisp and precise. “Wake-up call is at 0600.”

He watched the horrified expressions of the boys with clear amusement before continuing.

“You’ll have ten minutes for washing up and morning calisthenics. After that you’re supposed to clean your rooms and get yourselves in order.”

“What do you mean, ‘clean our rooms?’” someone grumbled. “Won’t there be maids?”

“There are cleaning staff, yes—but they won’t be touching your rooms. Every cadet is responsible for their own space.”

The grumbling got louder—until the smiling mustachioed officer abruptly stopped being so friendly. A subtle but unmistakable ripple of Fear Veil spread through the hall. Just a whisper of pressure—but it was enough.

“Everyone cleans their own room,” Krom snapped. “Personally. If your squad or platoon commander finds fault, the whole unit will be punished because of one slob. And trust me—none of you will like our disciplinary system. You’ll hear more about that from your commanding officers.”

Collective punishment? Great. That wasn’t gonna make anyone more cooperative. If anything, it would just breed resentment. Whoever messed up was gonna find themselves hated real quick.

Oddly enough, Witowt was just sitting there quietly. Someone must have already explained the ground rules to him.

“Classes run from 0800 to 1245,” Krom continued, retracting the veil. “Lunch is at 1300. From 1400 to 1700 you’ll have magical training. 1700 to 1845 is your time for independent study in preparation for classes.”

“Dinner is at 1900. After that, you’ll have free time until 2100, followed by evening roll call. Lights out at 2200.”

I glanced around at the shocked expressions on the boys’ faces.

I chuckled inwardly. Did they really think they’d just wear a fancy uniform, sit through some chill classes, and hang out with the imperial heir? Sorry, kiddos—this isn’t a field trip. I shook my head. Military life translated to strict schedules and routines. Okay, maybe this wasn’t the army yet, but the resemblance was uncanny.

“I see no questions,” the archmage said, his eyes sweeping the room. When no one spoke, he added, “In that case, let me introduce your platoon commanders.”

Why are they all so massive?! I wondered, eyeing the tall, broad-shouldered, stern-looking young men being introduced to us. Didn’t that kind of mass slow them down? Then again, Theophane looked just as big, and it didn’t seem to bother him one bit.

“Officers, the personnel are now under your command,” the archmage said, then turned and left the auditorium along with his deputies.

“We’ll start with the first platoon,” announced one of the commanders, pulling a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. “When you hear your name, respond loudly and clearly with ‘Present.’”

“Witowt,” he called, glancing at the heir.

“Present,” the boy replied in a clear, sharp voice.

Yeah, no doubt someone coached him thoroughly on what to do, I thought again.

“Zateikin,” the commander continued, naming one of Witowt’s inner circle.

Right, he probably asked for his pals to be assigned with him, I concluded—but I was wrong.

Aside from Zateikin, no members of the heir’s entourage were assigned to the first platoon. I caught flashes of confusion and disappointment on a few faces, but I personally was relieved that neither Godimir nor I were among them.

“Those I’ve named—stand up! March out!” barked the first platoon commander.

“We now move on to the second platoon,” the next officer said in a serious tone after the first group had left the hall.

We didn’t end up in that group either, but I did spot the ever-arrogant Glinov among them. He strutted past us with his chin held high, unbothered even now.

“I was sure they’d stick you or me in the second platoon,” Godimir muttered with relief.

“Dodged that one,” I replied, satisfied. “Being together is gonna make this a lot more bearable.”

Our own platoon commander didn’t bother reading any names. He simply counted heads, checked the number against a list, and barked, “Third platoon, stand up! Outside—form up in rows of three!”

At the exit, we were met by Beast, whose real name turned out to be Sergeant Beeston, hence the nickname—clearly assigned to our platoon. After lining us up, he gave the order:

“March!”

“Guess we’re the green squad,” I mused, glancing toward the building I’d identified earlier as our living quarters.

“Left turn!” barked our platoon commander. The turn was a mess of limbs and confusion, and the man winced slightly before glancing at his watch.

“All right, listen up,” he boomed. “We’re heading into your barracks. Just inside the door, on the wall to your left, you’ll see a placement chart. Find your room on it—it’s easy. Every door has a nameplate, so no chance of getting lost. Your belongings are already inside, so take this time to unpack and get settled.”

He paused, then added, “In about an hour, the barber will show up and start tidying up those heads of yours. After that, you’ll be issued your uniforms and footwear. Questions?”

No one spoke.

“Dismissed!”

Chapter 10

“ABSOLUTELY BALDACIOUS,” Godimir announced as he walked into my room, gave me a once-over, and burst into laughter. “There’s plain old ugly—and there’s your new hairdo. Or, rather, the lack thereof.”

I glanced at the mirrored sliding door on the wardrobe and shook my head.

Seeing my completely shaved head was a weird experience, sure—but it didn’t bother me. And I definitely didn’t look as ugly as he was inferring.

“No,” I said with an evil grin, “you’re just not used to seeing me like this. A new look seems to screw with your head, boyo.”

“Oh, so this is a look now?” Godimir chuckled. “I almost asked what you were in for.”

After the local barber’s expert use of a clipper, I’d gone from a decently cute kid to someone who looked about five years older. Instantly.

“It’s the look of someone who’s hot in the summer and couldn’t care less what people think,” I replied.

“Funny how you never seemed to care this little before,” Godimir pointed out. “Sure, your hair was always short, but not this short. You look... aged.”

“Hey, it’s never too late to try something new,” I replied with faux wisdom. “We’re teenagers—so we’re obligated to experiment. And for the record, you don’t look any better. Your ears stick out.”

“Look who’s talking! Dumbo’s stunt double!” he snapped, instantly losing his smile.

Oh ho—touchy spot, I thought, backing off.

“Relax,” I said, gesturing to the empty chair. “So your ears stick out a little—who cares? Probably half the kids here look the same after a close shave. Hell, even I do. Anyone with hair looks lopsided once you take it all off.”

“Fair,” he muttered, calming down a bit. “You know, my room’s identical to this one.”

“Not a surprise,” I said. “If they gave some kids nicer rooms than others, it’d be a battlefield. Everyone thinks the neighbor’s mattress is fluffier and their soup is warmer. Making everything the same? Way easier to keep the peace.”

Honestly, the room impressed me.

First off, it was just for me. I’d half expected we’d be shoved in two or three to a room to build “team spirit,” but no—this wasn’t some overcrowded barracks full of bunk beds and shared footlockers.

Second, it was comfortable. A solid wooden bed with a good mattress and a decent pillow. Wardrobe with mirrored doors. A desk by the window with a proper reading lamp. Two chairs, one of them of an ergonomic design—speak of fancy.

Honestly? This was luxury, by military school standards.

“I can’t believe I agreed to this,” Godimir said, running a hand over his shaved head. “I should have just said no. I bet they had to let us refuse.”

“Really?” I raised an eyebrow. “You think Sergeant Beeston and our squad leader were just hanging around because they had nothing better to do? Nah—they were there to squash resistance. From what I’ve heard, no one else is getting shaved. This was just a tradition.”

“What kind of a tradition exactly?” he snapped. “What tradition involves turning us into freaks?”

“You talk like we’re planning to don tuxedos and prance off to the opera tomorrow,” I teased. “It’ll grow back. The whole shaving thing’s a leftover from the days before good hygiene—back when lice ran the place and shaving heads was the only way to control infestations.”

“Oh please. Like any noble’s kid is crawling with lice,” he snorted.

“You’re probably right about that. But again—one-time deal. That’s what matters.”

“Thank the spirits,” he groaned. “If I had to go home bald and show my face like this—ugh. You think they’ll buzz Witowt, too? Or will he play the royal card and wiggle out of it?”

“They’ll shave him,” I said confidently. “No way the school leadership risks making him an exception. It’d turn the entire cadet corps against him. Sure, he’s the imperial heir—but right now, he’s a cadet like the rest of us. If they start playing favorites, it’ll backfire hard.”

I paused. “Besides, did you see how calm he was at the briefing? Didn’t even blink when they dropped the schedule and the rules. I’d bet good money the Emperor gave him very specific instructions to behave.”

Just then, a bellow like thunder shook the wall from the next room.

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING ON THE BED?! You’re not allowed to sit on them! Why do you think you’ve got two chairs?!”

Godimir and I exchanged a look and bolted next door.

Standing in the room was a massive, shaved-headed beast of a man towering over a small, confused boy.

“Name, cadet?!” the giant roared.

“P-Peskov,” came the uncertain reply. “But why can’t we sit on the beds? That’s just dumb!”

“Because. It. Is. FORBIDDEN,” the man thundered back, like it explained everything.

“What the hell are they feeding these guys?!” I thought, once again staring up at a man who looked like he could snap an ox in half with his knees. This one’s even bigger than our platoon commander...

“You weren’t taught to ask permission before entering a room where someone outranks you?!” snarled the unhinged giant, turning his head toward us with a glare.

“Sergeant,” I noted, eyeing his insignia. Then, in a calm tone, I replied, “We haven’t been taught anything here. At all. We’ve been here for less than a couple hours and haven’t even received our uniforms. What training are you talking about?”

“Name?!” the giant barked, stomping closer and forgetting all about the stunned Peskov.

“Morozov,” I said evenly, meeting his eyes.

“And what of it?! Morozov, huh?” he bellowed unexpectedly, right in my face. “Think that means you can ignore the chain of command? Interrupt a superior officer and violate the code?! Is that it?! You think you’re the smartest one here, is that what this is?! Huh?!”

“Oh, Savior, what did I do to deserve this?” I thought, boiling inside. “This is exactly what I was afraid of—some brain-damaged brute in charge and good old-fashioned military idiocy with no way to escape.”

Honestly, I’d grown unused to this kind of thuggish rudeness and didn’t even know how to respond. Or whether I even should respond to someone spouting such gibberish. His accusations were completely baseless.

“I’ll say it again,” I finally decided to reply. “We haven’t been taught a thing. We’ve only been here for a few hours. We don’t know anything, not even the basic rules, let alone the code. How do you expect us to follow a chain of command when we don’t even know who you are?”

“Listen here, Cadet Morozov,” the giant huffed, expelling air loudly from his lungs, “you’re getting too big for your shoes! This isn’t your family estate! And I’m not your servant! This is no nursery school! The rules laid out by the commander and the military code must be followed without question! Is that clear?!”

He lost control at the end, his voice rising to a full-blown shout.

“What the hell is wrong with him?” I fumed. “We’ve only just got here! What’s he expecting from us? The man’s completely off his rocker!”

I was very close to making it personal. I wanted to call him out as the thick-headed cretin he was, and explain in detail what was wrong with him and why. Maybe even throw in that if women didn’t like him, he shouldn’t take it out on innocent bystanders. But I held back. No need to make enemies on day one, even if they were idiots.

“I’ll be able to follow rules once I’ve actually been told what they are,” I said in a tone you’d use for someone with severe cognitive issues. Then I added some of my “cold” into the voice and added, “Until then, it’s ridiculous to demand anything from us.”

I felt the sergeant stiffen—he’d sensed something dangerous in me, and it pissed him off. Not the fact I’d stood my ground, but that tiny flicker of fear I’d made him feel. That momentary twinge.

“He’s not used to fearing boys,” I thought, quietly channeling spiritual energy into my body just in case. “Wouldn’t put it past this lunatic to throw the first punch.”

“Sergeant Deadwood, report to the platoon commander’s office,” came a voice suddenly through the speaker. “Sergeant Deadwood, report immediately to the platoon commander’s office.”

The giant instantly relaxed.

“I don’t have time to straighten you out right now, cadet, but we’ve got months of service ahead. You’ll regret your insubordination,” he rumbled with clear menace in his voice.

“You gave it to him good,” Godimir murmured once the deranged sergeant had stomped out, then added after a pause, “He’s definitely not all there.”

I shrugged vaguely. “Just another boneheaded grunt. Probably crawled out of some training company, used to pushing around the more recent arrivals, younger and disoriented, just because he can. Maybe that works for people who won’t lift a finger unless they’re kicked in the ass. But we’re not them. He forgot where he is—and who we are. I just reminded him. Hopefully that’ll knock a bit of sense into his hard noggin.”

“No way,” Godimir said, shaking his head. “His noggin isn’t hard—it’s damaged. He jumps from one topic to another, there’s zero logic, and he clearly has cognitive issues. I nearly went deaf from the shouting.”

“I think he’s just plain dumb,” said the kid whose room we were in. “Thanks, by the way. I honestly froze up at all the yelling and the nonsense. If he keeps acting like that, I’m reporting him to my father. We came here to study alongside the heir to the throne, not get screamed at by some brainless lump.”

“Seconded,” Ogneyer chimed in, just as some noise echoed from the corridor.

We opened the door and saw several workers carrying tables and large cardboard boxes down to the first-floor hall. Combat uniforms peeked from inside the crates.

“Ah, there’s the promised gear,” I thought.

The hall was a fairly spacious room—maybe three hundred square feet or so—and, as we’d learn later, meant for general formations and announcements.

“Come on,” Godimir said, watching the men in their distinctive blue overalls, “let’s take a walk while they’re setting up. Get to know the place we’ll be stuck in for the foreseeable future.”

During our little recon, we found out that the dormitory was a two-story building. You stepped into a small vestibule, with stairs leading up to the second floor and down into the basement. A sign pointed toward the basement stairwell. It was saying “Combat Magic Hall.”

There were two doors to the sides of the entrance, leading into different corridors. Each corridor had seven rooms, a bathroom, and the squad commander’s office—what they called a “wing.”

The open area between the two wings formed a large hall. That was where the workers were setting up tables to hand out the uniforms.

“So each wing is for one squad?” Godimir said thoughtfully. “Seven rooms, the squad leader’s office, and a private bathroom. At least it’s all equipped with proper plumbing, showers, washing machines… I’ve heard some units don’t even have those.”

“No idea,” I shrugged. “Things are way better in Morshansk. The Empire doesn’t skimp on upkeep there.”

“I’m just repeating what I heard,” Godimir replied, then added, “So does that mean we’ll be in different squads? You’re in one wing, I’m in another. Still, good thing we’re at least on the same floor. Would’ve sucked if one of us ended up upstairs. Or in a different building altogether.”

“True,” I agreed. “By the way—any idea what’s up on the second floor? In that wing with no cadets? Seven empty rooms and nothing else?”

“My guess is the squad leader’s office up there is replaced by the platoon commander’s,” said the boy whose room we were in. “But yeah, what the other rooms are for, that’s the real mystery.”

We went upstairs. A few rooms up there had heavy metal doors and were clearly locked.

“Armory,” I read off one of them.

“This one, too,” said Ogneyer, eyeing the next door.

Apart from the armories, the second floor featured a large room with soft couches, a plush carpet, and a massive wall-mounted TV. It was located right above the first-floor hall where we were about to be issued our uniforms.

Then the loudspeakers crackled to life again.

“All cadets report to the first-floor hall for standard uniform issue.”

“Only took them all day,” I thought, as Godimir tugged me back downstairs with a grin.

“Duh, so much for our tour…”

The uniform distribution went about as routinely and quickly as you'd expect.

With the help of Sergeant Beeston, the platoon formed into two ranks. One by one, we were called up to tables covered in camo gear.

The same workers in blue overalls from earlier quickly measured us with tape, jotted everything down, and handed out uniforms.

Each cadet, once kitted out, returned to their room to get changed.

“Once you’re dressed, I expect everyone back here,” the platoon commander said before the first cadet left. “I want to personally check that everything fits. And don’t forget to check your pockets.”

“Make sure it all fits properly. We’ll swap it out if anything’s wrong,” one of the older staffers added helpfully.

When it was my turn, I let them measure me without fuss, grabbed my gear, and returned to my room.

“Let’s see… camouflage pants, jacket, and undershirt. Olive beret. Brown harness. Surprisingly comfy high-soled black combat boots,” I noted to myself, inspecting the haul. “Oh, and two pairs of black socks and standard-issue underwear, same color.”

In the jacket’s chest pocket, I found a folded instruction sheet on how to wear the uniform properly.

“Praise the Savior, at least there’s nothing to hem or sew,” I thought, reading it.

Camouflage type: “Fauna.” The jacket was tucked into the pants, just like in my military past. The harness went on top—for carrying firearms, blades, or magical gear. The beret topped it all off.

I appreciated that the chest pockets had zippers. There were also two vertical belly-level pockets and two on the sleeves, sewn at a slight angle for easy access.

“You ready?” I asked, stepping into Godimir’s room.

He was already dressed and tightening his boot laces.

“They’re stiff,” he said after bouncing on his heels, wincing a little.

“You’re just not used to ’em,” I replied. “Wear them in a bit and they’ll mold to your feet. Worst case, slap some healing balm on the blisters. You did bring some, right?”

“Of course I did!” he said indignantly. “I knew what I was signing up for.”

After the platoon commander checked everyone and had two cadets swap boots, we were sent up to the second-floor lounge.

We found seats and got comfortable while we waited.

A few minutes later, the platoon commander entered along with three squad leaders. Beast was one of them—and so was the very same meathead who’d screamed at Peskov.

“All right, gentlemen cadets,” the commander said once the room settled down. “I’m sure that even in your short time here, you’ve already got plenty of questions. We’ll try to answer them today and tell you what to expect—but first, there’s something important we need to do.”

He paused for a beat, then continued.

“The armed forces of the Nosyrian Empire have an old tradition. It’s called ‘Introduction to the Warrior Brotherhood.’ Each of you will take a moment to tell us about yourself—who you are, what you enjoy, what you care about. I’ll go first to set the example. I hope no one objects?”

No one did. He went on.

“My name is Captain Alexander Vodentsov. I command the Third Platoon of the Imperial Cadet Academy. Until recently, I served in several special operations units. I’m a Magister-rank mage and a Militant-rank warrior.”

“Vodentsov… a ‘bronze’ line of nobility, if I’m not mistaken,” I thought. “Figures. They’d never put a commoner in charge of boyar-born cadets. He’d never have the authority. Our sergeants, though—they’re clearly of humbler stock.”

“I also enjoy shooting and hunting. I’m twenty-seven years old, married, with two children,” he continued.

Once he finished, the sergeants introduced themselves.

Just as I expected, all of them were former special ops soldiers from simple backgrounds. The unhinged giant, Deadwood, turned out to be twenty-three, single, and clearly had far too much time on his hands. And of course—just my luck—he was assigned as my direct commander.

Godimir got lucky. His squad was led by the far more composed and reasonable Beast, who was already forty-four, as I found out.

“The thicker the soldiers, the stronger the walls,” I thought bitterly, watching Deadwood chew gum like he was trying to win a prize. Young, plenty of testosterone, zero wisdom. We already saw where that led in Peskov’s room.

The boys introduced themselves one by one, and eventually, it was my turn.

“Ivan Morozov,” I said. “Militant and Adept. Interested in self-development.”

Short and to the point.

Praise the Savior—no one reacted to my family name. No dumb questions about my sudden return, the assassination attempt, the tournament, or George’s death. I was grateful.

I paid attention through the whole session, listening closely to everyone. I preferred getting to know them personally, not through a dossier. It was surprisingly engaging to match their stories to what I already knew.

Once we’d all introduced ourselves, the officers began answering our questions, shedding some light on the Academy’s training structure and what lay ahead.

Just like back on Earth, we’d go through a basic training course—initial military prep to teach us the formal and informal rules of service. We were also “delighted” to hear about daily drills and lessons in military conduct.

Still, I was much more interested in the physical and weapons training, advanced demonology, hands-on magic practice, and a hefty load of other theory and applied subjects.

There was also an update on our gear situation.

“Today, rear echelon specialists took your measurements,” Vodentsov said. “By tomorrow, they’ll be able to issue each of you additional combat uniforms and begin tailoring your dress uniforms—for the upcoming oath of loyalty to the Empire.”

My father had explained that part to me. The oath of loyalty meant pledging to uphold the interests of the state. That was it. No mention of swearing fealty to the monarch—though at first, I’d suspected they were nudging us toward it.

“And now,” said Vodentsov after an hour of lively discussion, glancing at his watch, “I’m leaving you in the capable hands of your squad leaders. Today, they’ll give you an intro to the regulations, teach you proper salutes, how to address a commander, and a few other things you’ll need immediately.”

First to speak was Deadwood, of course. He shot me a smug look before barking:

“First squad—on your feet. With me. March!”

Chapter 11

“ALL RIGHT, SQUAD,” the sergeant said, having lined us up in his fairly spacious office and sweeping us with what he clearly believed was a severe gaze. “Let me reintroduce myself. My name is Alexander Deadwood. You will address me only as ‘Sergeant, sir,’ he added, pausing just long enough to throw me a meaningful look before dramatically concluding, “I will not tolerate overfamiliarity or inappropriate fraternization!”

He gave us another once-over and continued.

“My task is to turn the seven of you—completely clueless boys—into the best squad in this academy! And I’ll be damned if I don’t make it happen! You’ll lead in every metric! From physical training to magical aptitude to academic performance. And make no mistake—I’ll do whatever it takes to achieve that goal!”

He emphasized the last phrase as if sheer volume would hammer his expectations into our skulls.

“And anyone,” he added, with unsettling softness, “who tries to sabotage our training or throw a wrench in the works in any other way… will be severely punished. Sure, they told us not to assign you cleaning duty outside your rooms. But I still have ways to make troublemakers very uncomfortable. In some cases”—he smiled ever so slightly—“full-contact sparring sessions are an excellent motivational tool. Don’t you agree?”

What the hell?! Full-contact sparring? That’s where we’d be starting? Straight to threats? What a fine commander indeed. Has he never heard of treating his students like people? Motivating them? Maybe taking ten minutes to build rapport before threatening to beat them up? The ink on his appointment isn’t even dry, and the squad barely realizes he’s their CO. Maybe this would fly with adult conscripts, the kind he’s probably used to bossing around. But we were still kids. And not just any kids—we were junior boyars from powerful families. I have a bad feeling I wasn’t the only one who found that little speech repellent. Deadwood might just come to regret it soon.

Without waiting for so much as a nod, Deadwood glanced at the wall clock and barked out the next order.

“Five minutes. Front of the barracks. Bring a notebook and pen. If you lacked the brains to come prepared, check the top drawer in your room. You’ll find everything you need. Dismissed!”

“I like him,” one of the boys said as soon as we were out of the office and the door clicked shut.

“Seriously?” asked a clearly annoyed Peskov. “I mean it—seriously? Because I can’t, for the life of me, understand how someone like that was appointed commander! How does a common thug even dare talk to us like that? I barely held back from punching him.”

“He’s just dumb. That’s why he’s so blunt,” came a lazy reply from one of the boys—I knew the surname was Taranov, but I still couldn’t recall the first name. “Whatever’s in his head comes out of his mouth. That’s why I’m suggesting we hold off and don’t overreact. Let’s observe a while. Who knows? Maybe this kind of straightforward, no-frills commander will actually suit us better than someone sneakier.”

“You want a commander who’s dumb, blunt, and obedient?” someone asked, utterly baffled.

“Don’t forget rude, with no filter,” another added.

“Exactly,” said Taranov with a satisfied grin. “That’s exactly what we need. No twisted mind games or manipulative plots. Dumb and direct. Perfect.”

“Oh great. So instead we’ll get a steady stream of stupid orders from a power-drunk egotist,” Peskov grumbled. “But fine, Nikola, I hear you. Let’s give it a little time and then reassess. He might not be a terrible mage, at least.”

Right! Nikola Taranov! I finally remembered the boy’s full name. How could I forget someone bearing such a storied name in my world?

“Look on the bright side,” said my little Tesla namesake with a smirk. “No cunning betrayals from him, that’s for sure.”

“Just the dumb kind,” someone snorted.

If Nikola’s ideal commander is one who’s too stupid to scheme or backstab, I’d really love to know what kind of life he lived before enrolling at the Academy…

I was pondering that while rummaging through the top drawer in my room. Sure enough, it held a few cadet-branded notebooks I’d overlooked when unpacking, along with the pens and supplies I’d brought from home.

I grabbed what I needed and headed to the entrance. The rest of the squad was already there.

After spending some time arranging us by height, then shuffling us into a two-by-two formation, Deadwood finally gave a satisfied nod. With a sharp “Forward—march!” he led us to a new location.

According to the sign, it was “Academic Building One,” not far from a grand white structure housing the auditorium and the dining hall. Between the two was a small parade square, neatly bordered by trimmed evergreens and a manicured lawn.

After picking up a key from a startled elderly lady in garish red dragonfly glasses, the sergeant marched us into a classroom, seated us at desks, and launched into our first formal lesson on military regulations.

He clearly took enormous pride in this moment—getting his hands dirty from day one, whipping his squad into shape, showing the grit and resolve to get right to business, and so on.

“A formation,” he intoned, pacing the room with burning eyes, “is the regulation-established placement of personnel, units, and military detachments for coordinated action on foot or in vehicles.”

He dictated slowly and solemnly, watching closely to make sure we were writing it down.

After defining the concept of a “formation,” we naturally moved on to what local military theory considered columns, ranks, formation depth, files, and the rest of that delightful gobbledygook. I should note, nearly all of this was already familiar—not just from my time in Boemir’s regiment, but also thanks to the uncanny resemblance to what I’d learned during my own military service back on Earth.

We jotted down the duties of a soldier before and during formation, the commands an officer is authorized to give, and the general responsibilities of military personnel.

While the others scribbled with sour faces, I managed to copy everything quickly and neatly while also scanning the room, catching their expressions. The poor guys looked downright betrayed—probably hadn’t expected to be sat at desks and given dictation on day one.

The one upside to all of this? Deadwood’s tone. Strikingly polite, even civil. He didn’t raise his voice once.

That was… unexpected. I thought he only came in two modes—angry and angrier. Could it be that the captain heard about his tantrum in Peskov’s room and gave him a proper talking-to? I scratched my head. We’d just have to see.

“This is complete horseshit!” Peskov blurted out the moment we stepped outside the academic building. Deadwood was busy returning the classroom key to a sharp-eyed woman with the warmth of a cactus, which gave us a window to chat freely. “We came here to train as warriors and we’re getting buried in notebooks from day one? Every other school gives students a few days to ease into the semester. But here? Dwarf Saws dismember the lot of them! Scribbling bullshit like we’re back in grammar school!”

“I thought we’d be taught how to fight,” another boy chimed in. “But no—here we are, learning military protocol. Disgraceful! If it weren’t for my promise to the head of my line to take this seriously, I wouldn’t be caught dead here.”

“And Witowt ended up in another platoon,” Nikola added with a mocking drawl, casually dragging everyone’s real motivation into the open.

“As if you were given any different instructions from your family,” the annoyed boy snapped back.

“No idea what you’re talking about,” Taranov sniffed. “No one told me to do anything.” He nodded at me. “Unlike some people.”

“You throwing shade just like that? Got beef with anyone here?” I asked mildly. I wasn’t about to start justifying myself to this joker.

“Shade? Beef?” Nikola made a face. “Where’d you even pick up words like that? Were you in a gang?”

“You’ve got a remarkable talent for making enemies,” I said in a glacial voice. “Picking fights for no reason isn’t a good look. What goes around comes around, my man.”

“Picking fights?” He grinned. “I’m just trying to get a conversation going. You’re all standing around like a bunch of statues. And let’s be honest, I’m sure you were given instructions too.”

“So you’re playing the martyr for our benefit?” I smirked. “Trying to unite the group by making everyone hate you? Don’t strain yourself—wouldn’t want you to pull something.”

“In that case,” Nikola said, attempting to pivot, “why don’t you share your take on what just happened, instead of standing there like a statue?”

I studied him. Was this random hostility, or did he have an agenda?

“I think this is just the beginning,” I said. “I mean the kind of decisions made by our commanders that you all find so infuriating. There’ll be more of this nonsense. We’re in the army now, and in the army, the commander’s word is law. Get used to it. Also, ask the other squads how they spent the afternoon. You might be surprised. And I wouldn’t be shocked if Deadwood, even though he didn’t say anything, starts grilling us on those notes tomorrow.”

“What?!” came the chorus of outrage. “Why would he do that?! We wrote it down, we get the point! What more does he want?”

“He wants you to know it,” I said. “This is a military academy, and they expect you to know basic protocol. And with a guy like Deadwood, expect a pop quiz daily.”

“I really hope you’re wrong,” Peskov groaned. “That’d just be the worst.”

“Remind me of this conversation tomorrow,” I replied. “Right before you get taught how to aim a rifle and a sidearm properly during firearms training.”

“You’re kidding,” he said, disbelieving. “Everyone knows how to shoot!”

“Everyone here probably does. Still,” I shrugged, “rules are rules.”

At that moment, Deadwood emerged from the building, and we all trooped back toward the dorm. Our path led us past it, though, as we were meant to regroup with the other squads and head to dinner as a full platoon.

“Why didn’t we just go straight to the mess hall from class?” one of the boys muttered. “Why take this detour—just to touch base at the dorm before heading back? What the hell is the point of walking in circles?”

A heartfelt complaint, I thought, amused. Other boys murmured in agreement.

“No talking in formation!” Deadwood barked. “Silence! Absolute silence!”

“I swear I’m going to hit him with a fireball if he doesn’t knock it off,” Godimir muttered next to me. The boys around us snorted in agreement.

Dinner passed without incident. If you didn’t count the collective hush that fell over the hall when Witowt walked in, that is. No doubt every cadet had been tasked by their House to “form a bond” with the heir to the throne.

“Hmm… I wonder,” I thought, “will Witowt try to use that to get back at me? Plenty of the boys would fall over themselves to please him. The opportunity practically hands itself to him. I’m curious to see what he’ll do… and whether he’ll rope in anyone from my own squad. Like Nikola, for instance…”

The mess hall food was no worse than what we’d had in the Imperial school—maybe even better. The portions were definitely larger. I’d hoped to sit with Ogneyer and chat, but it turned out seating was strictly organized.

The command had made a smart call: each squad got its own eight-person table—seven cadets and one sergeant. Thankfully, the squad leaders dined separately at a pair of side tables. Which made sense. What did they have to talk about with us kids, anyway?

The atmosphere at the table was… less than charitable. Toward the sergeant, obviously. The boys were gleefully discussing how they’d hurl spells at Deadwood if he didn’t tone it down. After all, what could he do? He was just a brawler!

I didn’t bother to ruin their fun by pointing out that the sergeant could grind us all into dust if he really wanted to. Reality would set them straight soon enough.

“Where’d you disappear to before dinner?!” Ogneyer burst into my room, clearly having missed the chance to talk during lineup or mealtime. “We were supposed to explore the grounds together! I went looking and poof—you were nowhere to be found.”

“Our whole squad disappeared,” I replied, nodding toward the notebook on the desk. “We spent a few hours in a classroom copying articles from the military code.”

“You’re joking,” Godimir gaped. “What classroom?! What copying?! We just arrived!”

“Our commander’s… let’s say, one of a kind,” I shrugged.

“One of a kind?” the boy echoed, twirling a finger by his temple. “Beast had us sit in his office, gave us a talk about what to expect in the coming days, handed out printed summaries of the code, told us to start reviewing them slowly… ten minutes, tops. Then we were free.”

“That was an option the whole time?” I muttered, recalling a meme from my world, then waved him off when he gave me a confused look. “Yeah, with a commander like mine, this is going to be a very long semester.”

Godimir nodded and said, “Hey, far as I remember, we’ve got free time now until twenty-one hundred. Wanna go for that walk after all? Scout the grounds a bit? Maybe find a spot to train?”

I agreed. I’d been itching to stretch my body, and training out of sight was always preferable. First step would be to find a good place.

As it turned out, we weren’t the only curious ones. Small groups of cadets were scattered around the campus, exploring with interest.

Skirting the dorm and continuing a bit farther, we stumbled upon a spacious workout area filled with pull-up bars, parallel bars, and various bodyweight machines.

All of it was tucked away behind a lush green wall of manicured thuja trees, planted in a tight row—maybe twenty inches between each. The result was a seamless hedge that shielded the whole area from prying eyes.

To my surprise, the space behind the trees was completely empty.

“This’ll do nicely,” I said, pleased. Leaping onto the tallest bar, I started doing pull-ups.

“My body’s aching for a workout,” I admitted as I dropped back down. “There’s even an open patch over there—plenty of room for sword drills.”

“Or maybe we should find a spot to practice spells?” Godimir suggested. “I mean, like it or not, magical constructs are our main arsenal. Magic is everything. Physical training is… extracurricular at best.”

I gave him a puzzled look.

“Weren’t you the one who told me you wanted to master both paths? Body and magic?”

“I was,” Ogneyer said, meeting my eyes. “But after the Imperial Tournament… I compared myself to the other mages. The ones in the advanced bracket. And I realized just how weak I am.”

“Hold on,” I interrupted. “I don’t know who you were comparing yourself to, but your magical stats are excellent. Among your peers, you’re one of the strongest out there! Even with all the time you spend on martial training.”

“Exactly! And if I want to stay that strong, I have to let go of the combat path entirely and focus on magic.”

“Honestly,” I said after a pause, “that sounds like a… lopsided path.”

“What?” Godimir’s head snapped up, brow furrowing. “Lopsided, huh? Easy for you to say! You’ve got amazing combat skills, you form techniques naturally, channel spiritual energy like it’s second nature, and you’re already ranked as a Militant! On top of that, you underwent self-initiation and proved you’re a seriously powerful mage in the making! Of course you think my choice is lopsided—you’ll never have to make that choice! I might keep up with you in magic, maybe, but as a warrior? I’ll never be like you! And you’re right! If I waste time training with a blade, I’ll lose ground as a mage!”

Whoa. Okay.

Where was all this bitterness coming from? Did someone manage to brainwash him over the summer?

Why did I assume his mind had been tampered with? Because the Godimir I knew never used to set us up as rivals. He always believed we were on the same side. But now? There was something new in his voice. And not in a good way.

What was this? Some speech from his father, clinging to the old idea that a mage must devote himself entirely to his path? Or maybe Witowt had gotten to him? Planted the poisonous idea that he’s weak compared to Morozov? Or perhaps Ogneyer really did push himself hard this summer and came back with a new fire to prove something…

“Well? Why are you silent?!” Godimir snapped. “Say it already! Explain why you think my path is so defective!”

“That’s not what I said,” I replied, shaking my head. “I didn’t call your path defective—I meant it’s a shame to develop only one talent when you clearly have two, and they complement each other. I just don’t think it’s right to ignore one gift when you have the time and ability to nurture both—especially when you enjoy both. The skills you gain won’t go to waste, not in the life we’re headed for.”

“If all I want is to become a powerful, skilled mage? If that’s where my potential lies?” Godimir wasn’t backing down. “If I truly have a future on that path—why should I waste time on something that won’t make me mighty? It’s a distraction! I’ll say it again—I’m not you!”

“Don’t lie to yourself,” I said again, shaking my head. “Sure, we’re different. But right now, your goal is to become as strong as possible, isn’t it?” I waited for him to nod before continuing. “And if that’s your goal, then you need to be ready to defend your House’s honor. That’s your foundation. For someone with that mission, martial training isn’t a waste—it’s a tool. One that hardens both body and will. It also teaches you how to handle yourself in real combat. Too many modern mages rely entirely on their magic. And what happens when things get serious? They burn out. Fast. And when they’re up against a well-trained fighter with enchanted armor? They fold. But give those same mages just a basic grasp of combat, and suddenly their survival chances skyrocket.”

Godimir opened his mouth, but I cut him off again.

“Also, if you think this is just my personal opinion—take a look around. The Academy’s leadership seems to agree with me. Just look at our commanders—every one of them built like a stone tower. Magic classes are interspersed with physical and firearms training. Second line of the daily schedule? ‘Morning physical conditioning.’ You think the Emperor and his advisors are stupid enough to train the empire’s future elite with the wrong methods? Honestly?”

I paused for breath, then decided to share a thought that had just popped into my head.

“By the way… haven’t you noticed anything strange about our Archmage?”

“Strange? Not really,” Godimir muttered, distracted. “He’s just a guy. A bit young for that rank, I guess.”

“That’s exactly the point,” I said. “That detail fits perfectly into my theory.”

“What theory?” he asked, shaking off his earlier frustration.

“The theory that the youngest Archmage in the Empire doesn’t shy away from training his body. That he wears battle gear like it’s second skin and clearly keeps himself sharp as a fighter too. Maybe that’s why he got so powerful so fast—because he didn’t let outdated dogma hold him back. And have you noticed? Our officers aren’t any different. Every single one of them holds both a magical and martial rank. That can’t be coincidence.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Godimir admitted after a moment. “But still… I’ll never match your skill as a warrior. That’s just fact.”

“Who knows?” I shrugged. “It’s all in your hands. Just don’t give it up completely.”

* * *

The first week at the cadet academy passed without major incident. We adjusted to the new schedule, the soldier’s lifestyle, the rules, and the hierarchy.

A lot of the boys—especially those used to being treated with deference back home—struggled to accept that they were no longer the center of the world. That they could now be bossed around by someone from a much lower background.

Not a day went by without some cadet clashing with a squad leader or the captain. That’s when the boys really started to understand—against trained warriors, they were nothing.

I expected tension between the permanent and temporary personnel to keep rising. After all, they kept telling us, “This is your lightest week of training. Time to get settled, figure things out. After seven days, real training begins. If this doesn’t suit you—you’re free to go. No one’s forcing you to stay.”

And just like I’d warned the squad, our sergeant began his interrogations the very next day. Drilling us on the regulations we’d copied down. He was especially hard on me. The rest got their share, sure, but with me it was different. He had something to prove.

Why? Easy. I answered everything. Every question. The regulations were already familiar, and it didn’t take much effort to recall them. Not surprising—recollecting is easier than learning from scratch. And I hadn’t put myself through hell at the Imperial school for nothing. My memory was trained. It could lock down large volumes of information with little prep.

“What a swot,” Taranov sneered after our first session ended, just as Deadwood—scowling, of course—pointed me out as the best performer. “Trying to score points with the sergeant? Probably stayed up all night, cramming just to get noticed, didn’t you? Pathetic. And for what, exactly?”

The timing was no accident. If Nikola wanted to turn the rest of the squad against me, this was the perfect moment. After all, none of them had answered anything. And Deadwood had “praised” each of them with his usual passive-aggressive jabs—never calling any names, but always making it clear who he meant.

What made it worse? The early wake-up, morning drills, and the room inspections. The boys, most of whom had never touched a mop in their lives, were made to dust, sweep, and scrub their rooms. But the real blow came when Deadwood ordered five of the seven cadets to polish their boots during inspection.

It seemed Nikola was trying to redirect all that frustration straight at me—and I seriously considered whether I should respond.

If I reminded them I’d warned them about this, it would sound like I’m justifying myself, I realized. Even worse, they might actually believe I was sucking up to Deadwood all night, studying to impress him.

So instead, I redirected.

“You’re throwing accusations?” I said, staring him down. “You? The same guy who said yesterday that he liked our commander? In my class, I was considered one of the top students. It’d be strange if someone with a trained memory couldn’t remember a few articles of regulation. Plus, I had prep in a special operations regiment. Most of this stuff was something I already knew.”

“But you saw everyone else stay silent,” Taranov pressed on, refusing to let go. “You just had to show off? Trying to suck up to a nobody with a low-rank badge? Why not just keep your mouth shut?”

Now that was interesting. Coincidence, or is someone deliberately trying to smear my name? Was this a coordinated little campaign to trash my reputation? Or was this just Nikola throwing a personal tantrum, lashing out and looking for someone to blame?

“So what you’re mad about is that I answered when I knew the answer?” I said. “That I didn’t protect your fragile little feelings? Go cry somewhere else. I seriously don’t get that logic. You’re mad at me for doing something you couldn’t? What next?”

I went with a comparison that always hits home in an all-boys squad.

“The next time you won’t be able to get it up with a woman, are you gonna blame me for that too?”

The boys—who’d been watching me with some lingering judgment, all hormonal and deep in puberty—froze for a split second… and then erupted into wild laughter.

Bullseye, I thought, feeling smug.

“What?!” Taranov sputtered, his cheeks flaring red as blotches spread down his neck. “For your information—I’m not even a virgin anymore!”

“If I were you, I wouldn’t go around confessing my love for older men so openly,” I said coolly, setting off a second wave of laughter. “Or was it non-consensual? In that case, my condolences.”

“It was a woman,” Taranov growled, now practically vibrating with rage. He took a step forward like he might actually lunge—but then stopped. Relaxed.

“You’re good,” he admitted grudgingly. “You flipped this thing fast.”

“No idea what you mean,” I said calmly. “Are you talking about trying to convince us you weren’t assaulted by some man? Or are you the one trying to flip this now?”

While Nikola wrestled for a comeback, I made sure everyone could hear me loud and clear.

“Don’t start shit with me, Nikola—especially not because you can’t handle something. That’s just pathetic. Own your weaknesses. Leave me out of it.”

Chapter 12

“PLATOON, ALERT! Report to the first-floor hall! Uniform Code Four!”

The mechanical voice blared from the speakers all over the dorm. I woke up instantly. Leaping out of bed, I reached for the neatly folded uniform on my nightstand and began dressing at speed.

“Pants, jacket, boots, laces, beret, move!” I recited to myself while channeling spiritual energy into my body to shake off the grogginess.

One glance at my wristwatch made me mentally curse.

Four in the damn morning?! May Nocers consume their entire bloodline. Have they completely lost it? We got back from our last forced march maybe two hours ago! I thanked the Deliverer for knowing a thing or two about meditation—I’d have been wrecked otherwise.

Buttoning up as I moved, I stepped into the hall and took my place—fully geared and ready. Within a few dozen seconds, three bleary-eyed boys stumbled in almost simultaneously—Ogneyer, Peskov, and Taranov. By the time they arrived, I was already standing at attention.

Nikola shot me a quick sour look as he took his place and started tying his laces in haste. He hated it when I was faster than him. Since that happened fairly often, we never became friends.

The sergeants, all holding slim tablets, were silently logging our arrival times. Just like me, they looked fresh and alert—clearly no strangers to meditation themselves.

Watching the squad snap into formation with speed and coordination, I had to admit it—after nearly two months locked up in this academy, we’d genuinely become a functional military unit. Real badasses, the lot of us.

I preferred not to think about our first emergency alert.

That was exactly a week after we arrived. For days, they’d hammered it into us from every direction: “These first seven days are to get your bearings. A soft start. The real training begins after that.” On that fateful morning, the platoon assembled for the alert in just under four minutes—and only because the sergeants ran room to room, yanking us half-asleep out of bed.

Now? Thanks to relentless drills, we almost always hit regulation timing. Almost.

There were still days—like today—when the gap between alerts was so short, we barely got two hours of sleep. Unsurprisingly, a few boys didn’t quite make the cut this time either…

In fairness, the Academy’s training system was brilliant. In just two months, most of the boys had changed dramatically. Because yes—those “harsh realities” had definitely arrived.

“Unacceptable! Utterly unacceptable, gentlemen cadets!”

Captain Vodentsov had been pacing in front of our line after that first early-morning mess. “The standard for an emergency wake-up is one minute! Just one minute! Why are you moving like sedated slugs?! You took not two, not three, but a full four minutes, Nocers devour you all! What are you going to do when demons breach the perimeter?! Wait until they slit your sleepy throats?! How do you expect to protect civilians if you can’t even dress yourselves in time?! Every second you waste is someone’s life. A civilian life!”

He paused to rein in his temper, and then continued with icy clarity.

“You’ve just earned yourselves another alert drill. From now on, every time you fail a task, we do it again. Once. Twice. Three times—however long it takes until you stop being pathetic and start being useful. You might want to ponder that.”

Then he pulled a stopwatch from his pocket.

“Since you didn’t meet regulation timing, training begins now. You have one minute to undress, fold your uniforms neatly on your nightstand, and get into bed. Anyone not lying down by the end, or anyone with a uniform that isn’t perfectly folded, earns the entire platoon another round. If there are no complaints during inspection and you get back to formation in time afterward—we’re done with alert drills for tonight.”

He gave us a sharp look before barking the command:

“Platoon—lights out!”

We scattered.

Moving fast but tidy, I folded my uniform and lay down, waiting.

Suddenly, I was hit by a wave of nostalgia.

Getting undressed in under a minute wasn’t a problem for me. I’d served in the army back on Earth, and our sergeants also loved this kind of “obedience training.” Here, in addition to my previous skills, I had a serious edge—spiritual energy, which let me boost my reflexes and speed tenfold. No wonder I was always first at formation.

“Platoon—lights out!”

The intercom buzzed again, signaling the end of the minute.

The sergeants swept through the rooms, checking each cadet and inspecting how we’d folded our gear. Then the next call came.

“Platoon, alert! Report to the first-floor hall! Uniform Code Two!”

Code Two? I thought as I dressed and stepped out. Trousers, shirt, boots. They just had us in Code Four. Are they trying to trick someone into showing up in the wrong gear?

There were five official uniform codes in the Imperial Armed Forces.

Code One: shirt, underwear, and slippers.

Code Two: shirt, trousers, and boots.

Code Three: like Code Two, but with a jacket.

Code Four: includes the beret.

Code Five: winter wear—Code Four plus a greatcoat. Depending on command preference, the beret could be swapped out for a black knit cap.

The commanding officer could also throw in: “Uniform Code Two—bare chest.” Which meant: no shirt at formation. That’s how we usually dressed for morning drills—pants and boots, nothing else.

“Morozov again,” Deadwood snorted with amusement, making a note on his tablet.

This time, the platoon managed to form up in one minute and twenty-three seconds—a significant improvement—but it wasn’t enough.

“Much better,” Captain Vodentsov said as he paced in front of us. “More than twice the speed. But still not within regulation. And cadets Polyakov, Goretski, and Travkin didn’t bother folding their uniforms the way their squad leader taught them. Kowalski and Rivers arrived in the wrong uniform.”

Just as I thought—they changed the dress code on purpose, I realized.

“Why do we even have to get up and dress in a minute?” Goretski grumbled. “We’re here to study, not run around like a bunch of baby Dwarf Saws!”

“Yeah! And if someone doesn’t like how I folded my uniform, they can come do it themselves,” added a smug Travkin, who was in Godimir’s squad. “This is ridiculous! Instead of actual learning, we’re occupied with some nonsense!”

It was worth noting that for the past week, every platoon in the academy had been repeatedly told the same thing: if you don’t like the training system—no one’s forcing you to stay. Not happy? Great. Submit a withdrawal request and head home. Later, you can tell the world how hard it was and how unfair everything felt.

A subtle Veil of Fear blanketed the hall. The chorus of supportive muttering died instantly.

“Disobeying orders? Questioning your command?” Vodentsov hissed as he marched up to Travkin and quoted Regulation Article Twenty-Five: “A soldier is obligated to obey the orders of superiors immediately, precisely, and without question.” He swept his gaze across the formation and went on.

“Neither I, nor the squad commanders will listen to your whining, your excuses, your complaints, or your opinions, gentlemen cadets! What we want is obedience. You’re nobodies! Aside from your fancy family names, you’ve got nothing. Unless you count laziness, arrogance, and inflated egos!” He paused, then added coldly, “Which you seem to have in surplus.”

The magical pressure in the room intensified—some kind of unfamiliar coercive technique, apparently.

“Anyone who doesn’t want to be here can write a letter of withdrawal right now and run back home to mommy.”

When Vodentsov saw my face—calm and unmoved—he narrowed his eyes and cranked up the pressure. When that didn’t work either, he gave the faintest grudging huff.

Meanwhile, the weaker-willed boys were going pale. Satisfied, Vodentsov released the pressure and continued.

“Unfortunately, we don’t have time to run more alert drills today. But trust me—we’ll get back to it. For now, you still owe me one regulation-compliant wake-up. One minute and twenty-three seconds isn’t even close! And on top of that, five more drills have been added, courtesy of five lazy, careless cadets. Fair warning—this is the new policy. If you don’t fold your uniform right, or show up in the wrong dress code, we’ll repeat this drill again and again.”

The shaken boys stayed silent. But the stronger-willed cadets were already shaking off the paralysis, absorbing the captain’s shift in tone with growing awareness.

“I’ll give you a chance,” he added. “The platoon can reduce its number of required drills—if today’s star screw-ups impress me. I want to see how they handle the morning run. No stragglers.”

With that, the captain turned toward the door.

“Left face. Single file. March,” Sergeant Beeston called out. But half the cadets were still frozen in place. He had to repeat the order.

“Stay together. No spreading out. No falling behind,” the captain said as he took the lead. “Double time—march!”

The first five minutes were manageable. Vodentsov kept a moderate pace, letting the boys warm up and fully wake. That had been the rhythm of all previous morning runs.

But today he decided to introduce some changes in the routine.

Gradually, he picked up the pace.

Many cadets—especially those who hadn’t done long-distance running before the Academy—were already struggling during the standard drills. With this sudden acceleration, it wasn’t long before the first stragglers emerged, nudged forward by the sergeants bringing up the rear.

“Keep moving! Close the gap!” they barked, as usual.

“If anyone gives up, permission to use the needles,” the captain called out to the squad leaders without breaking stride.

I instinctively clenched my glutes, remembering Theophane’s brutal training sessions—there was a hell of a lot of running involved.

Yikes. Poor kids, I thought. Let’s see what happens when the first one cracks—will he keep it together, or snap?

The pace kept increasing. And soon enough, despite the sergeants’ shouting, a few cadets couldn’t keep up.

Then it happened—a yelp of surprise and pain rang out, followed by a surge of magic behind me.

It was Kowalski.

Furious from a needle jab in the thigh, he hurled a sizable fireball at Deadwood.

“You bastard!” he shouted, following it with another identical spell.

The man sidestepped lazily, dodging both clumsy attacks. Then, with zero ceremony, he stepped forward and smacked the boy across the face—hard enough to send him tumbling into the rear ranks.

“Did I give the order to stop?!” Vodentsov roared. “Keep—”

“He hit me!” Kowalski shrieked at the top of his lungs, cutting the captain off. “He stabbed me with something and then he hit me! How dare he?! I’ll tell my father! You’ll all be sorry!”

The tension that had been building since dawn finally snapped. The boys started shouting, furious and afraid—nobody wanted a needle in the backside. And any of them could be next.

“Got a problem, Kowalski?!” the captain growled, jabbing the boy in the chest with a single finger and sending him stumbling backward.

“What the hell is going on?!” the cadet exploded. “Why should we obey you?! What’s with these surprise drills?! Why is some idiot allowed to stab and slap me?! My father’s going to hear about this, and none of you are walking away unscathed!”

A blur—and Kowalski hit the ground.

“You call a squad commander an idiot again,” Vodentsov said, looming over him, “and you’ll deeply regret it.”

Captain Vodentsov casually blocked Rivers’ water bullet with a light shield—barely a flick of the wrist—but the spell served as a trigger. A split second later, the rest of the furious cadets unleashed their magical attacks.

Well—most of them.

To be fair, about five boys decided this wasn’t their fight and wisely stepped back a few paces. I had no doubt the cadets were about to get taught a very painful lesson—and I was right.

The captain flashed an evil grin, clapped his hands together, and sent out a shockwave that flattened the unsuspecting boys with ridiculous ease.

Interesting technique, I noted. I’d have to study that one.

“You whelps!” the captain drawled with smug satisfaction as the boys groaned and picked themselves up off the pavement. “The heads of your noble Houses signed binding contracts with the Imperial throne, authorizing officers and sergeants to train you however they see fit. Once again: if something doesn’t suit you—the gate is right there. Go tell your kin and the world that you couldn’t survive even a week here. That your delicate sensibilities don’t allow you to serve alongside real men.”

He wrinkled his nose with distaste.

“And as for that display? Pathetic. Those weak little spells of yours couldn’t even fend off a Dwarf Saw. Embarrassing. Spineless. Worthless. The only thing you’ve got going for you is your name—and even that’s not worth much if you’re lazy cowards.”

“We can do better!” someone shouted, pushed to the edge by the captain’s words.

Without replying, Vodentsov flung a weak Water Wall into the center of the platoon.

“Feeling refreshed?!” he barked at the soaking cadets. “I don’t want to hear another complaint! Anyone who wants to keep testing me—I’ll contact their House today and tell their family they’re bringing shame to their name!”

Damn. That hit like a fireball to the gut. The moment he said it, the cadets froze in place, staring at Vodentsov in horror.

“Form up! Three columns!” Sergeant Beeston called.

The boys scrambled into position.

“Double time! And anyone who falls behind—don’t cry about getting a needle in your ass!” the captain called back over his shoulder.

About half an hour later, our platoon was jogging somewhere about half a mile from the dorms—exhausted and strung out. Finally, the captain relented and let us run at our own pace. Most of the boys were on the verge of collapse anyway.

He may have made a mistake, I thought, watching cadets slow to a walk, then drop out entirely.

Running was still easy for me, although I was feeling it. I hadn’t done long-distance work in a while. Still, I held back so as not to stand out, and grabbed Peskov and Polyakov under the arms to keep them from falling behind.

“Anyone still standing, grab someone who isn’t!” I shouted. “Don’t forget—we’ve got five extra drills we can cancel if we make it back right behind the captain!”

“Ivan! Let’s focus on helping the ones who need it most,” Godimir called over. “We’ve got a better shot that way.”

“We’ve got this,” Peskov wheezed, trying to pull away. “We’ve got it.”

“I’ll be back,” I said, heading for the rear ranks, where the worst stragglers were falling apart.

Ogneyer, Taranov, and even Kowalski were doing the same—dragging limp boys along, step by step.

“Link up!” I shouted. “Anyone still moving, grab someone who isn’t! Let’s show them Third Platoon isn’t a sack of crap—we’re a unit! A brotherhood! Now let’s move!”

“Let’s move!” echoed the tougher cadets, and we closed formation into a tight pack.

Noticing that some of them could barely lift their legs, I started calling out a cadence.

“Left foot! One-two-three! One-two—Third Platoon! Who’s with me?! One-two-three! One-two—Third Platoon!”

“One-two-three! One-two—Third Platoon!” a few voices responded.

Then a few more.

And soon, everyone.

When we passed a surprised deputy headmaster coming from the opposite direction, he stared at us in sheer disbelief.

Our commanders were waiting for us at the gates. The look on Vodentsov’s face was absolutely precious.

“Did they all make it back together?” he murmured, counting heads.

When he was done, he nodded slowly. “Well then… this deserves a small reward. I’ll overlook those five failed alert drills for today. However—” his expression darkened slightly, “—as your commander, I cannot overlook the abysmal quality of your spells… or the pathetic state of your physical conditioning.”

As the boys staggered back to their rooms like survivors of a battle, I headed straight for the showers, still grinning. The place had real hot water—and, for once, I appreciated modern amenities.

When I served in the armed forces back on Earth, we hadn’t had the luxury of proper plumbing. There, the washing station was a sink, a faucet with cold water, and a bucket.

Our platoon was the first to arrive for breakfast. That was weird—normally, all squads showed up around the same time. Later, we learned that both First and Second Platoons had been subjected to their own versions of “true training.” Strenuous drills. Verbal battles with their commanders. The usual chaos.

“Holy shit,” Peskov muttered as he dropped into the seat beside me. “What the hell was that?”

“Depends what part you’re asking about,” I said, calmly cutting into a slab of roast with my knife and fork.

“All of it,” he grimaced. “The weird alarm drills. The psychotic morning runs. The needle threats. And don’t even get me started on the whole ‘I’ll write your House and ruin your future’ thing. My family would kill me!”

“Don’t forget the backhand,” Polyakov said. “You guys saw Kowalski fly like a paper ball? The commander sure didn’t hold back! That was not normal.”

“If the commander had actually hit him at full strength—or even half—we’d be holding the funeral today,” I said dryly.

“Wait, what?” the boy gawked. “He flew about a dozen feet!”

I shook my head. “That wasn’t even close to full power.”

We sat in silence for a bit. Then Polyakov asked, “So what do we do? We can’t just let them keep treating us like this!”

“There is one way to put Vodentsov in his place,” Taranov said lazily.

“Oh yeah?” the boys perked up. “What way?”

“Simple,” Nikola smirked. “Challenge him to a duel and beat him like you tenderize a steak. Works every time.”

“Right. Just challenge him to a duel,” Peskov muttered. “Super easy. Especially after he’s flattened half the platoon with a clap.” Then he turned to me. “By the way, Ivan, why didn’t you jump in to defend Kowalski?”

“I saw it coming,” I said. “We’re cadets. He’s a spec-ops veteran. That was never going to go our way. And honestly, I think the commanders are within their rights. They’ll teach us however they see fit. Don’t like it? File a withdrawal. That’s the reality. But let’s be honest—none of us are going to do that. Everyone here has their reasons.”

“Maybe if you’d joined in, we’d have broken his shield,” Taranov tossed out.

“Funny,” I said, grinning. “You were standing right next to me. Could have jumped in yourself. But I got the picture back during formation—when Vodentsov used that spiritual technique.”

“Spiritual what-now?” Peskov blinked.

“It’s kind of like a warrior’s version of a spell,” I explained. “Remember how he started saying all that nasty stuff and you wanted to yell back but couldn’t move a muscle? That paralyzing fear? That was it.”

“I was standing there calling myself all sorts of names, but couldn’t do squat,” Polyakov muttered. “So that’s what that was?”

“Exactly,” I nodded.

“How do you know all this?” he asked, narrowing his eyes. “What if it was just magic?”

I spun the ring on my finger instead of replying.

“I don’t really get all these military ranks,” he admitted. “My House is ‘bronze-tier,’ and we’ve always put everything into magic. What’s your rank again? I only know ‘Knight’ and ‘Hero.’”

“Militant,” I replied. “Roughly the same level as a ‘Doctor’ among mages.”

“Whoa,” he said, wide-eyed. “Adept, Bachelor, Master, Doctor… Fourth rank? That’s wild.”

“Fourth dan, basically,” Peskov mused. “That’s what they call it in some fighter schools, right?”

“In some,” Taranov muttered darkly. Then he turned to me. “So you’ve chosen the warrior path, huh? Legs work better than your brain?”

“Don’t act like you haven’t heard about my self-initiation,” I replied, pouring myself some tea. “That story made national news. I’ve got decent magical talent.”

“You mean the self-initiation that came after two years pretending to be a commoner?” Nikola said, raising a brow. “Is that where you learned to keep your room so tidy? Not a single demerit yet, right?”

“You’re spending a suspicious amount of time analyzing my humble person,” I said. “Just so we’re clear—I’m into girls exclusively.”

The boys burst out laughing. Taranov gave a tight-lipped smile.

“I’m not joking,” he said. “I’m genuinely interested.”

“Then try channeling that curiosity into the Academy regulations,” I advised. “That way next time you won’t blame me for all your screw-ups.”

As the commanders had promised, the new week was packed to the brim. From that day forward, we ran faster during drills, scaled obstacle courses with increasing ease, snapped into formation quicker, and learned to suit up in full combat gear—knee pads, elbow guards, body armor, and helmet—all in record time.

The tone of classes shifted too—it became tense and focused.

The first period was usually theoretical, followed by one or two blocks of magical practice. Then came physical or firearms training, and finally, lessons from the imperial school curriculum.

The physical training routine remained rather basic—mobility drills, endurance routines, and what everyone hated most—jumping jacks.

“I swear, I’ve had it with you,” Taranov growled, winding up for a punch.

But the captain, who had shed his concealment spell at some point, cuffed him lightly across the back of the head.

That left-hand smack was meant to bring me to my senses too, but I’d felt his presence in advance and sidestepped easily.

“Well then,” Vodentsov huffed, amused. Then he barked, “Formation! First-floor hall!”

As part of our continued “character development,” the Third Platoon had been thoroughly drilled on a single core idea: we were brothers. Brothers in arms. The kind of people who’d have to cover each other in a real fight. If things went south, we’d only have each other to rely on. Which meant no fighting. Not unless it was under direct supervision.

As for Witowt, he kept to himself, distant and aloof. The boy seemed in no hurry to bond with anyone at all.

Chapter 13

“WHEN THE HELL IS THIS GOING to end?!” I thought bitterly, racing up to the second floor of the dorms.

After days of constant alerts and the endless combat readiness drills that followed, my mood had tanked hard. And the worst part? It caught me completely off guard.

Just yesterday, everything was fine. I was going through the motions like usual, sticking to academy rules, following orders, absorbing lessons like a sponge, keeping up with my personal training. Things had settled into a rhythm. Life felt solid, predictable. But today something flipped.

I woke up to another alert, and it hit me like a backhand from a demon—everything was annoying. Everything.

I was probably the last one in the platoon to crack like this. Hell, maybe the last one on the entire first-year roster. Most of the guys hit their boiling point sometime in the first month. And honestly, I couldn’t blame them.

It was all a gigantic pressure cooker. New and unfamiliar surroundings, a constant barrage of commands, sharp-tongued sergeants, psychological pressure, and an unrelenting sleep deficit—it’s enough to break anyone, even the calmest.

Sometimes that pressure exploded into fights over nothing. Petty scuffles with fellow cadets, shouting matches with squad leaders, or just silent tears when no one was looking.

Fighting, of course, was punished hard. It started with a forced march in full combat gear—and just to make sure no one enjoyed the experience, the offender’s entire squad was sent along for the ride. After one brawl involving four cadets, our whole platoon got hit with punishment duty.

On those runs, the sergeants were merciless. They’d drive us straight into rivers, drop us for pushups in the mud, or stop randomly for everyone’s favorite form of suffering: jumbo.

Every cadet hated jumbo. Even me. It burned out your legs fast and had to be done in perfect sync. The exercise involved jumping straight up from a squat and clapping above your head in unison.

I remember the first time Deadwood explained the rules, practically glowing with sadistic joy.

“You need to jump as high as you can and clap your hands at the exact same time—as a unit,” he told us, eyeing our sweat-drenched faces. “We’ll start with just five. That’s enough for your first time.”

Five? I thought. Piece of cake. Easy peasy.

“One!” he barked.

The slaps of our claps came staggered and sloppy.

“Doesn’t count! One!”

He shouted louder. We did better.

“One!” Again—crisper.

“Two!” he called.

We hit it cleaner.

“Two!” Still in sync.

“Two!” he said once more, and we went for it, synchronized this time. I was expecting him on to “three.”

But Deadwood had disappointed us.

“Not everyone’s jumping properly. Doesn’t count. Try again. Two!”

Needless to say, we never got to five. We kept jumping for thirty straight minutes. By the end of it, probably everyone wanted to murder someone.

“You can’t even manage five damn jumbos!” Deadwood sneered.

Even I wanted to punch him in that moment.

Punishments like that came with a lesson, of course. Brotherhood. Don’t fight your own. Someday we’d have to rely on each other in real battle—and if you were still bitter about some childish grudge, someone would end up dead.

Whether the message got through or the fear of future punishment had played its part, the fights died down. Command got what they wanted—hesitation before fists flew.

As for me, I’d held it together this long because, honestly, most of it was fine by me. I didn’t mind the routine. I had Theophane’s brutal training behind me. That man had loaded me up with every advantage a warrior could ask for.

Meditation kept me rested, even when we only got two hours of sleep. Shiki-cho and my solid physical condition let me hit every formation on time, ace every drill, and keep pushing without burning out.

The commanders noticed, of course. Sometimes they assigned me extra exercises, just to test my limit. And I never refused. If Theophane had taught me one thing, it was this—if you could train, you should train. You never knew who you’d face next.

That’s why I never skipped my personal sessions. I couldn’t afford to backslide. The rank of Militant wasn’t handed to me on a platter. I’d bled and sweated my way up there.

To a bystander, my life probably looked great. Even enviable. I was succeeding. I was one of the top cadets in nearly every category. And I knew it.

Academics? Easy. I soaked up everything the instructors dished out. The physical demands? No problem. Sleep? I got enough. Objectively, I was fine.

And yet, today something gave.

I couldn’t say why. Maybe it was the fact that I’d been locked inside this place for two straight months. Maybe it was because the Kufar project—something that meant a lot to me—was launching right now, and I couldn’t oversee any of it. No phones were allowed.

Maybe it was the crushing feeling of being stuck in a never-ending loop. A Groundhog Day where every morning is the same damn emergency drill, every day a blur of orders and sweat and waiting for someone to yell at you again.

Or maybe… maybe I could change it.

I could write a request to the Academy head and walk away. Leave this all behind.

Over the past few weeks, fleeting questions like that had started to drift into my mind. Quiet and decidedly unwelcome thoughts that made me pause. Think. Rethink.

And now… they were louder.

“What am I even doing here? What’s the point of all this? Should I just go home and stop wasting my time?” I kept wondering, distracted from the daily grind.

But I was lying to myself with that last question, wasn’t I?

To be fair, the Academy couldn’t give me as much as it gave the others. Physically and spiritually, I was already ahead—on par with the permanent staff, even. Years of Theophane’s training, the wasteland expeditions, the hard-earned mastery of spiritual energy—all that had put me in a different league. My proficiency with firearms was impeccable, thanks to Ilyasov’s coaching. And as for discipline? The Academy had nothing to teach me there. I wasn’t some clueless noble brat. I was a grown man in an adolescent’s body, I knew exactly what I wanted, and was walking a very deliberate path.

I had to admit I was too good for this place. Was I wasting my time? If it weren’t for the social capital—the budding friendships and respect I was earning among the younger heirs of powerful Houses—or the fact that they were shaping us into elite battle mages, I’d have been out of here long ago.

To be fair, the Academy had its merits. In just two months, we’d been hammered with tactical and strategic doctrine— how to fight demons and humans. We’d been drilled in foundational combat magic. I’d already picked up five new constructs and was grinding through a sixth.

But despite all that, I still felt like I was sinking. Sinking into sameness. Monotony. Like my boots were stuck in spiritual quicksand and I was slowly being coated in duckweed.

Evening training was the only thing keeping my mind from shutting down.

I’d spend about an hour emptying myself of spiritual energy, fully immersing in blade drills and technique development. The rest of the time, I hit the magic range behind Training Building One—a huge field open to any cadet who wanted to push harder.

Snapping out of my thoughts, I reached into the top locker and pulled out my tactical vest—the one loaded with loops and pouches. I slipped it on and snapped it shut. Next locker: knee and elbow guards. Third locker: helmet.

The entire platoon was already moving in a tight line through the armory, suiting up as they went. The conversion-to-combat-readiness system here was beautifully efficient.

You entered through one door and got funneled into a maze of lockers, each one packed with gear. You moved through the corridor in a serpentine path, picking up what you needed step by step. By the time you exited out the other side, you were fully geared and ready to kill.

Three magazines tucked into chest pouches. One more clicked into the rifle, which I slung across my back and moved on.

One step, and I had a standard-issue magic rod on my belt. Another step, and a mana grenade went into my vest pocket. A few steps more brought me out the far door of the armory.

I bounced in place, checking my kit. Everything solid. I pulled the rifle around front and prepped for the run.

After a few miles, we veered toward the training rigs, vaulting three different obstacle courses—numbers three, seven, and eight—the numbers always changed, so we couldn’t memorize them.

“Morozov, Polyakov, Peskov, Taranov—to the firing line, march!” Vodentsov barked.

We jogged to the chalk-white line on the asphalt.

“To arms!”

At the second line, I flicked the safety off, chambered a round, flipped the safety back on, and called, “Cadet Morozov ready for combat!”

“Fire!”

I dropped the safety, aimed, and engaged.

Five targets—five shots—five perfect hits. They folded one by one.

I dropped to a crouch and swapped magazines. The targets popped up again. More fire. More hits.

Then I dropped prone, ran through my final clip, and called, “Cadet Morozov—shooting complete.”

A sergeant sprinted over, checked the empties and cleared my chamber. “Inspected!” he barked.

I burned off my final magazine with Deadwood over in Training Building Four—a sprawling indoor range stacked with dozens of tactical scenarios.

After that, rifle slung again, I grabbed my magic rod and headed for the range…

By the time the platoon stumbled back to the dorms, wrung out and soaked in sweat, we were fried. And of course, we couldn’t just dump our gear.

First—clean the rifle. Then the rod. Then the armor. Then reload the mags. Then you could wash up.

As I scrubbed powder fouling off the bolt, I could feel that gray fog rolling back in. Apathy again.

“Gotta finish quick. Get clean. Get to bed,” I thought. Theophane would have made me rest after a stretch like this. Hell, he wouldn’t even look at me for three days. Shame we didn’t get that luxury here. There was always more to do.”

The next morning didn’t help.

If anything, the tension in my chest felt worse.

“You’re acting weird today,” Peskov muttered as we brushed our teeth after morning drills.

“That obvious?” I asked, splashing cold water on my face.

“Very,” Nikola chimed in nearby—then grinned. “I don’t even feel like insulting you today. You might cry like a little girl.”

I turned and looked at him—our dear agent of Witowt, whom I’d identified as such long ago. But I said nothing.

I was snapped back to reality by Peskov’s voice cutting through the fog.

“Ivan, chill the hell out!”

I looked up. His face was tight with concern. Then my eyes dropped to the sink. Frost was spidering out from where my hands rested, lacing the metal and ceramic with creeping vines of ice. My fingertips were glowing faintly, my irises an unnatural luminous blue. Even the mirror had started frosting into fractal patterns.

“I’m a bit off today,” I admitted, pulling my hands back.

Nobody said anything when I left. Not even Taranov.

The entire day felt like wading through a swamp of nerves. I obeyed commands mechanically and answered teachers like I was somewhere else entirely. More than once I had to swallow a rising surge of energy, some raw flare of emotion that felt dangerously close to exploding.

It all came to a head after dinner.

I was heading back toward the dorms when a sergeant from the Second Platoon barreled into me. He didn’t even try to move around me.

“Watch it, moron! Open your damn eyes!” he barked. “Stupid thick-skulled idiot!”

I stopped cold.

The rage hit instantly—white-hot, head-to-toe—and for the first time since coming here, it wasn’t a slow burn. It was a blaze. In all my time at the Academy, no one in command had ever dared speak to me like that. Not even Deadwood, as unhinged as he could get, had ever been that careless with his words. Maybe because I carried his squad. Or, perhaps, because he saw me for what I really was.

But this guy? This loudmouthed nothing? He had no idea what he’d just done.

Let it go? Avoid the scene? Maybe he didn’t mean me personally—just had a bad day, woke up on the wrong side of his dusty cot… The thought flickered.

And died.

No. Screw that.

I turned. “Apologize.”

“What?” He stared at me like I’d just spoken Demonese to him.

“Apologize,” I repeated, voice even but locked tight.

“To you?” he spat, loud now. “You want me to apologize to you?”

“You got it,” I said, fighting the urge to shatter his jaw on the spot.

“You’ve lost your goddamn mind, cadet,” he barked. “Should I kneel while I’m at it?!”

“Up to you,” I replied, letting the silence stretch as a few curious cadets slowed nearby.

“You little—!” He inhaled, already red in the face, winding up for another outburst—

That was when Beast stepped in.

“Nick,” he said calmly, “what’s going on here?”

“This kid is demanding apologies,” the sergeant hissed. “Nearly crashed into me and now thinks I should grovel?! You need to get your cadets in line. He’s out of control!”

Nick started to move past me, clearly hoping it would blow over.

But I didn’t step aside. “I said apologize.”

“See this, Beast?!” the sergeant shouted, spinning on Beeston. “The brat’s asking for it! If you won’t handle him, I will!”

Beast raised a brow and shot me an inquisitive look, without reacting to the use of his nickname in front of the cadets in any way.

“He called me a thick-skulled idiot. So,” I said, voice low, “either he apologizes… or I’ll have to teach him some manners personally.”

“See this? He’s provoking me! The sergeant squared up, furious. “Think you’re hot shit because your commander likes you? You think I won’t teach you a lesson just because you’re not my cadet? Think again.”

“I’m waiting for the apology,” I said.

I could feel it rising again—that wild pulse of anger, cold and bright in my limbs. My hands were already tingling, muscles charged.

The sergeant saw it too. His grin turned predatory.

“Outside,” he said. “Command doesn’t like indoor messes. We’ll talk in the yard.”

Beeston caught my eye. “Ivan. Are you sure?”

“More than,” I said without stopping.

The front plaza was wide and stone-paved, just outside the dorm block. A perfect stage.

“You still want that apology?” the sergeant sneered, cracking his neck to make a point. “Your precious mentors won’t save you.”

“I don’t need saving,” I said—and then I moved.

Shiki-Cho exploded through my muscles. I was on him in a blink.

He barely had time to raise a limp Will Shield—I shattered it on contact, slammed into his center mass, and sent him airborne. He hit the stones hard, the force flipping him into a sloppy back roll.

The moment his back hit the ground, he was already moving—darting at me in a flicker of displacement. One Step after another, his body blinked in and out of sight as he tried to play the predator.

But that was his mistake.

He relied too heavily on a single technique, banking on it to carry him through. And worse—he executed it the same way each time. Straight line. Equal intervals. Predictable.

So when he smugly appeared behind me, expecting a clean shot at my spine, he instead caught the full force of a Power Whirlwind. His shield hadn’t even begun to form before he went flying. Good thing that side of the plaza was empty—wouldn’t have wanted any witnesses caught in the splash zone.

“Shameful,” came Krom’s voice, disgust curling each syllable. “You just got dropped by a cadet—in front of your own men. Congratulations. You’ve just tanked the reputation of the entire junior command tier. Either clean this up, or start prepping your résumé for supermarket security. Veteran my ass.”

Veteran? I thought, surprised. Why the hell was he this weak, then? Was it emotion? Or had I just gotten that strong?

The ground exploded where I’d just been standing, dust kicking up in a tight column as I slipped sideways with another Step.

Didn’t even get to exhale before he was on me again—a storm of fists and knees.

I held the line. Just barely.

Running hot on fury and instinct, I matched him blow for blow—my defenses crackled, some collapsed under pressure, and I caught more than a few hits I’d be feeling in the morning. But I wasn’t just blocking. I was dealing damage as well. He learned real fast that I could Step just as well as him, and from angles he didn’t see coming.

Watching blood drip down his shattered nose felt oddly satisfying—but I knew it wouldn’t last. He had reach, bulk, and brute strength. If this dragged out, he’d grind me down. Just a matter of time.

If I only had my saber…

Hold on a second. I’m a freaking mage.

The thought hit like lightning, stopping me cold for a heartbeat.

What the hell was I doing brawling like a street thug? I had the Gift. So I should use it. Use all of it. I needed to win.

I Stepped out again in a blur of movement, and the sergeant chased.

Too late.

His boot hit the freshly iced tile and went skidding. His legs shot out, and his skull met the ground with a sickening crack.

I didn’t wait for him to recover.

Hands out, I summoned a Water Wall—a technique I’d grown fond of lately—and then unleashed my inner Cold, pouring it into the stream until the air bit down to subzero and the liquid flash-froze into jagged crystal.

I ended up with a perfect leg-high glacier. He was trapped mid-stance, feet sealed inside a prison of ice.

And just as I lifted my hand to finish it—

Archmage Grozov made an entrance.

The Commandant.

Without a word, he placed one hand on the ice. Steam hissed up like a sigh, and in seconds, it was gone.

“You’ll hand in your resignation today,” he said to the groaning sergeant in a glacial voice.

Then his eyes locked on mine. Cold. Measuring.

“And you—don’t forget that you’re a mage,” he said. “You turned a sure defeat into a fast victory using only the simplest spells. Think about that.”

Then, with nothing more than a nod,

“Dismissed.”

Chapter 14

I WINCED SLIGHTLY from several bright flashes—dozens, if not hundreds, of cameras going off.

“Damn reporters! Does each of them have, like, three point-and-shoots on their person that they use all at once?” I thought, looking at the sea of light spilling out in front of the formation. “Although it’s probably not just reporters going all out—it’s also photographers hired by boyar families whose representatives are standing here today. A Nocer’s axe up their backside! Why isn’t anyone putting a stop to this circus? And how much longer do we have to stand here like this? Half an hour? An hour?!” The next thought made me crack an evil grin. “Seems like all ceremonial events in the armed forces of every nation—and even of every world—share one mandatory element: the late arrival of the high brass. Here, that role is filled by the Emperor. The oath won’t start without him. And he, as a father, could have at least hurried up a bit—his son’s the one attending the academy, after all!”

The cadets had changed into black dress uniforms tailored strictly to their measurements. Their pressed trousers were marked by broad crimson vertical stripes, and the tunics—with shoulder boards of the same red—bore the gold-embroidered abbreviation ‘IMA’, short for ‘Imperial Military Academy’, all agleam, with golden buttons and the cord tips of their aiguillettes against the fine black fabric. Above the right breast pocket hung the academy’s coat of arms forged of iron: on a lozenge sable, an open book argent charged with a wizard’s staff palewise proper between the leaves, its finial enflamed azure. From what I’d learned, these amulet badges weren’t just for catching the eye—they could also protect the wearer from two or three strong magical strikes. Useful—and very expensive—little trinkets.

The sleeves of the tunics bore patches—on the left, of the armed forces, and on the right, of the military academy. Yellow belts with golden oval buckles, snow-white shirts and gloves, small neat peaked caps with red piping, and shoes polished to a mirror sheen—completed a look pleasing to any outsider.

Judging by the scraps of conversation I overheard, the cadets’ appearance wasn’t causing offense to anyone around, which was good news—especially considering the info passed to us during formation by our platoon commander. After the official oath-taking, we’d be obligated to wear the cadet academy’s dress uniform to every formal—or semi-formal—event until our two-year course was over, be it a ball, a public assembly, or the grand opening of a Manneken Pis-style fountain. All this in the name of the academy, Dwarf Saws take it, and prestige building. And, naturally, opting out wasn’t an option. The gracious host of the evening would first and foremost ask why I wasn’t wearing my handsome uniform, which would have looked so appropriate at his reception. And the other guests wouldn’t understand such disrespect toward a school as prestigious and elite as the one attended by the heir to the Empire himself. The rumors would start, people would gossip about the reasons for my behavior, all manner of nonsense would get passed from mouth to mouth, and the reputation I’d managed to build half by chance would take a hit—something a businessman like me could ill afford.

So I’d have to put up with it for a while.

Once the photographers finally calmed down a little and the flashes subsided, I turned my gaze to the podium on its low platform, and then to the towering flagpoles beside it. At their base, a pair of broad flags rippled in the breeze: the Nosyrian Imperial standard the banner of the empire’s armed forces.

“Wonder who’ll get the honor of raising the armed forces emblem?” I thought lazily, running through the possibilities.

I didn’t believe for a second it would be me. After that brawl with the sergeant, the command staff’s attitude toward me had soured fast. Now that the squad leaders had noticed I could handle physical strain easily, Captain Vodentsov had taken over my training personally—which, in my opinion, worked out nicely. I was getting real practice fighting a Veteran-ranked soldier who didn’t shy away from using magic. Sometimes, when I had some energy, will, and pride left, I’d drag myself over to the magical training grounds. Godimir, Peskov, Kowalski, and a couple of other guys from my platoon would usually join me. Sometimes we teamed up with folks from other units, and the training sessions instantly became way more interesting.

I figured the reason for my popularity wasn’t just the victory in the sergeant fight, but also my behavior—more and more often it didn’t match the mask I tried to wear. The boys could instinctively sense a grown man in me and didn’t hesitate to come to me for help or advice. I tried not to turn anyone away. I remembered the main reason I was here. I was sure that building ties with scions of the boyar families would definitely come in handy down the line.

Two weeks before the oath ceremony, they’d added extra drill lessons to our schedule, and we began daily practice for the event. By ancient military tradition, the commanders had decided to run us into the ground on the parade ground to ensure everything went smoothly. One of my favorite sayings about army life came to mind: “A holiday for a soldier is like a wedding for a horse—your face framed in flowers, and your ass in a lather!” It was practically folk wisdom, and every service member had learned how true it is. Because every holiday is a full-on special operation. First you had to write a plan, which would get scrutinized by the nosy brass and probably rewritten several times. Then come the daily drawn-out rehearsals of every detail—from crisp salutes to the officer to various parade formations—and finally, the inevitable full dress rehearsals.

It was no surprise that we were practicing all of this in class. There were the crisp salutes, the constant falling out and reforming of the ranks, the hours-long marches past the podium, and marching in step individually. The last element received special attention because two as-yet-unknown cadets would be invited up to the podium to raise the national and armed forces flags.

Nobody yet knew who those lucky ones would be. At our first rehearsal, the head of the academy, Archmage Grozov, announced that the right to raise the flags would be given to the best cadets of the academy—based on the rankings from the past months of study.

It turned out that ever since the start of our training at the cadet school, all our successes and failures had been graded, and we’d earned points for them. This mysterious ranking was nothing if not comprehensive—the time it took to respond to an alarm, scores from target practice, the time on a forced march, results in magic and academic subjects—in short, everything! Disciplinary actions, backtalk to commanders and officers, and even fights with them were also entered into the database. That’s when I finally understood the purpose of those little tablets the junior commanders always carried.

We were also warned that after the oath and a long holiday spelling a well-deserved rest, the academy would tally the results of the first trimester in the assembly hall, and on a big screen, the names of the best and worst cadets would be displayed for the whole corps. We’d also be informed of the Emperor’s decision—whether we’d continue our training, and how that would go…

Personally, I had no doubt that Witowt would be the one raising the national flag. He was the heir to the Empire, after all—it was symbolic, and it would be strange if they let someone else do it. As for the second cadet who’d raise the service flag—I had no guesses. Well, I did have thoughts, but I didn’t know how things stood in other platoons, and I lacked data to analyze. So really, it could have been anyone.

Naturally, this bit of info landed on fertile soil—childish ambition and curiosity—so the cadets argued themselves hoarse nearly every day, trying to guess who would be chosen as the best cadet in the academy. One day it was one boyar’s son, the next—another. My name came up too, now and then, but most people—myself included—figured that the fight with the sergeant had tanked my ranking, and so that honor wasn’t in the cards for me.

Imagine my surprise when, after Emperor Izasław had been formally welcomed, the deputy head of the academy, Colonel Krom, announced in a ceremonial voice…:

“The right to raise the national flag of the Nosyrian Empire and the service flag of the armed forces is hereby granted to the best cadets of the first year of the Imperial Cadet Academy: Prince Witowt the Second and Prince Ivan Morozov.”

“Get moving! That was your name!” whispered Kowalski, jabbing me in the ribs when I didn’t react to the deputy’s words.

I stepped out of the ranks briskly and confidently and made my way to the flagpole—and to everyone’s surprise, my platoon suddenly burst into wild applause, quickly echoed by the academy’s guests.

“Dwarf Saws chop me up! Even here I stood out…” I thought as I raised the service flag to the sound of the national anthem, watching the happy faces of the cadets in Third Platoon.

Our unit was currently winning the unofficial rankings, and the guys were clearly thrilled about it.

“I, Ivan Morozov, solemnly swear as I enter the ranks of the Imperial Cadet Academy to be honest, dutiful, and to truly love my Homeland! To uphold the honor and dignity of an Imperial cadet! To cultivate the best human qualities, to master knowledge, and to become a worthy citizen and defender of my country!

I swear!

I swear!

I swear!”

After reading the oath, I returned to formation and waited for this long-since-boring event to finally end. I just wanted to tear off the uniform and go rest with the Temnikov family, which had shown up almost in full force. No more drills or any other military nonsense.

“Just ten more minutes, then we’ll do the ceremonial march—and then freedom!” I rejoiced. “A full three weeks! Not two, like regular schoolkids! Thankfully, the head of the academy decided to let us rest up before the next stage of training.”

“Ivan!” Anna and Maria ran up to me from both sides. “You look so handsome! That uniform really looks great on you!”

“Yeah! A real man, huh?” snorted Ruslan, joining in.

“Congrats on the oath,” my father said calmly, reaching out for a handshake.

“Happy holiday,” added Galina quietly, standing next to him. I hadn’t seen her in at least six months.

I immediately noticed how worn out Belova looked. She hadn’t been chubby to begin with, but it seemed she’d lost about twenty pounds. Her cheeks were sunken, her hair looked dull and thinner, there were bags under her eyes, and her skin’s unnatural tone was caked over with layers of foundation. Instead of her usual hint of expensive perfume, I smelled a familiar scent of medical tonics.

“How curious…” I thought, watching this vulnerable-looking Galina. She no longer gave off the impression of a dangerous predator ready to strike. More like an emaciated cobra with its fangs torn out.

I don’t know why that image came to mind—but I promised myself I’d find out where she’d been and what had happened to her.

“Top cadet in the academy, huh?” Ignatius clapped me on the shoulder and finished with a sly grin. “Riding your military success, are you? Ever thought about becoming a proper mage?”

Instead of answering, I sent a stream of cold air into his face.

“Cool off a bit.”

“Parlor tricks,” my brother sniffed, stepping aside to let Theodore through.

“Leave the kid alone on a day like this,” said the current heir of the Temnikov line, pulling me into a shoulder hug.

After I received congratulations from my family and many members of other boyar families, we set off together toward the parking lot.

“Any idea where my trustee is?” I asked Theodore, not seeing my mentor even near the lot.

“Oh, right! Theophane asked me to say he’ll congratulate you tomorrow at the office,” said my brother. “You get it—he’s not looking to bump into Father again.”

“Tomorrow it is,” I said, understanding the old mentor’s move, and slid into the car.

* * *

Returning to the Temnikovs’ capital house after the oath ceremony, Galina barely made it up to her room before collapsing onto the bed in exhaustion.

Her eyes filled with tears, and the woman who had once thought of herself as strong began to cry quietly. Quietly—because if her husband heard her, he might get very angry, and it would hurt again. And today, she wanted to avoid that.

Her thoughts jumped to the children, and her lips involuntarily pressed into a thin, hard line.

No! She couldn’t fall apart! She couldn’t show weakness! Not now, not after most of the path had already been walked! There was still a chance to change everything... There was still hope...

For a moment, that flare of emotion seemed to give her strength—but it was an illusion. Right after that thought, a jet of blood burst from her clenched lips.

Galina coughed—softly, but with a sound that hollowed the air, as if something deep inside her had cracked.

A cramp seized her insides, twisting what felt like every organ. Those were the side effects of the painkiller she’d taken—after all, there was no way she could have faced society today without a chemical boost.

Galina passed out at some point, unable to bear the growing pain. When she came to, hours later, and slowly opened her eyes, she saw her husband standing over her, casting unknown spells.

“My prince,” she tried to rise, but he merely waved her off.

“How much time do I have left?” Belova asked hoarsely a few moments later.

“You’ll last till evening. That’s all that’s needed,” Temnikov said calmly—without anger, hatred, or contempt in his voice.

It had happened many, many times already. But that was in the past.

The hardest part had been the first few months, when her husband had locked her in the family’s ritual hall and, using ancient magical knowledge, tore through her memory in real time, watching her memories from a first-person view. He observed what she’d done to become the wife of the head of a “golden” bloodline. He studied exactly how she’d gotten him drunk on fine alcohol and clouded his mind with drugs, how she’d poisoned him with a family potion—and slipped poison to some of the children from his first marriage as well. How her scheming had led to the deaths of two Temnikovs—Ivan, who had resurrected, and the elder Morozov. How she’d contracted the assassin league to take out the heir of the family, George—only to cancel the order later.

He’d gutted her completely, sifting through her memory over and over again, draining her rapidly fading body.

“You made a big mistake letting me regain my mind through sacrifice,” Yegor would say after each session, as the ancient bronze knife of the Temnikov line sank deep into her soft, yielding flesh.

Galina didn’t notice when she slipped into a nightmare, where Yegor, despite all his promises, was slaughtering her children on the altar of the “golden” line to atone for her own sins. It was with such threats that he had forced her—probably for the last time—to appear at a social gathering and show her sickly face to the world, so that no one would be surprised when she died soon after.

Lost in that terrible dream, the woman didn’t feel the healer of the family arriving and pouring several medicinal elixirs into her. Nor did she feel the two men in guard uniforms lifting her limp body onto a stretcher and carrying it to the helicopter, which promptly set off toward the Temnikov estate...

* * *

“I understand you’ve got a lot going on right now,” my father said when we were alone. “Several months without contact—that’s tough. You’ve got a business to manage, other projects, and barely any time for it all. Just three weeks. I’m also aware of the situation with your new house in the capital. I get that you don’t want to rely on me for anything—and I understand why. You’re right. You need to get used to living independently. But I’d like for us to reach a certain understanding…” He paused, looking me in the eye. “For reasons you already know, we can’t act separately right now—at least not until you complete the emancipation ritual and come of age. So I propose the following arrangement for the duration of your break. I’ll give you the dates when I need you and explain why. In return, you carry out what I ask, and the rest of the time is yours. Deal?”

I stayed silent, turning over his words, then after a short pause asked:

“What do I get in return?”

“Are you a warrior or a merchant?” my father smirked, then added, “What do you want? And for what?”

“For doing your errands and following your orders. Don’t forget—I’m a Morozov, not a Temnikov. Even magic acknowledged that. So if you want understanding—give me a reason. For example, right now I’m very interested in your knowledge,” I said. “One-on-one instruction with the head of the family—that’s exactly what I need.”

“And what kind of knowledge do you want?” my father asked with surprise, though I caught a glint of satisfaction in his black eyes.

“For starters, the basics—how to be the head of a ‘golden’ bloodline,” I answered, making it clear that I understood the difference between running a ‘bronze’, ‘silver’, or ‘golden’ line. “I want to finally understand what the family altar is, the ritual tools, how to perform the emancipation, and other family rites.”

“All right,” he agreed after a moment. “That’s perfectly acceptable. First, I’ll issue you a pass to the restricted section of the family library and mark the books you need to start with. Let me be clear: you’re forbidden from taking the books outside the estate, leaving them lying around, or scribbling in them. You may not photograph the pages or show your notes to anyone—especially not your various friends. You should already understand what secrecy means, especially when it comes to family magic—particularly one as ancient as ours. I’d rather not see what our ancestors gathered grain by grain become public knowledge.”

“So I can take notes?” I clarified.

“You’ll seal your notebook with a special ritual so only you can open it—and then go ahead!”

“There’s knowledge like that in there?!” I looked at Prince Temnikov with interest. “I’ve never heard of anything like that!”

“Well, of course not,” Father scoffed. “This isn’t something publicly known like Fireball or other basic combat spells. Our family keeps many secrets—and you have every right to access them.”

“The only question is what I’ll have to do to earn it, right?” I asked, sensing a catch.

“No, nothing like that. I’m not planning to involve you in anything serious. But I need you to attend tonight’s family council and show up at two or three balls in your new, handsome uniform.”

“There’s a council tonight?!” I exclaimed, checking the time.

“We’re flying out soon,” the elder Temnikov confirmed.

“What do you mean? Everyone’s already here.”

“You’re forgetting Galina’s children,” Father said with a barely perceptible grimace. “And besides, the council is being held in the family’s ritual hall.”

“The ritual hall...” I tensed. “Not the best place for my memories.”

“Mine either,” Father said. “But you’re obligated to be there with everyone else. I need to share some important information, and that’s the best place to do it.”

“I assume I’ll be brought back just as quickly tomorrow?” I asked.

“Yes—together with Theodore and Ignatius,” he specified. “They weren’t too thrilled about returning home even for a day, but duty calls.”

We flew from the capital to the Temnikov estate in the same incredibly comfortable helicopters I had already gotten familiar with. I spent the entire flight chatting non-stop, answering a barrage of questions about my time at the academy, and the ride passed in a flash.

Upon arrival, Father gave us instructions on how to prepare for the council in the ritual hall. He told us to be ready at the entrance by eleven, and then dismissed us.

After soaking properly in a hot bath, I drank a special herbal infusion, changed into a simple linen shirt, and made my way to the ritual hall—where the rest of the family had already gathered at the appointed hour.

Just as I approached, the door of the ritual hall opened, and my father stepped out, inviting us in one by one. The siblings were behaving strangely. Even Ignatius was silent, staring into space with dilated pupils.

I realized what was going on at once. The potion they’d drunk had put them into a sort of trance, making it easier to sense the family’s magic and the ritual processes that were about to take place—during which, I gathered, Father would conduct that unusual council.

I was the last to enter the Temnikov family’s ritual hall. A dense shroud of Darkness at the threshold gripped me for a moment—assessing and studying—before letting go just as quickly, not even giving me time to be afraid.

The family members were arranged in a specific sequence inside some kind of complex figure, all facing a black monolithic stone shrouded in thick darkness.

“Now that’s a family altar…” I thought in amazement, feeling the powerful, almost hypnotic energy emanating from the stone.

I didn’t remember what happened before I found myself sitting cross-legged in the designated spot and staring into the thick swirling darkness, like all the others.

The hall was lit by small black candles placed in wall niches and within the ritual figure itself.

I came to my senses when new figures entered—a visibly unwell Galina and her two small children, who were also laid out in specific positions. Despite their tender age, the children were quiet—likely thanks to the potion and the Darkness shimmering in their eyes.

As I was distracted observing the newcomers, the fog above the altar surged higher, spread wider, and stretched out across the entire room, blotting out even the faintest glimmer of candlelight. When my vision returned at last, I saw the dark mist flowing gently into Anna’s nostrils as she sat nearby.

“Dwarf Saws and damnation!” I twitched when I felt the same tendrils slipping into me.

But time passed, and nothing bad happened—only the frozen block inside my inner world began to glow more brightly with a ghostly blue light, as if staking its claim over me.

“My children,” Father said quietly. “I am convening an emergency council of the Temnikov family in light of certain deeply unpleasant revelations. I admit I made a grave mistake by bringing a woman from a ‘bronze’ bloodline into our family. Now you’ll see the result. Begin.”

When Galina began to speak, I stared at her in disbelief.

Just like that—sitting before us—she calmly confessed how, for the sake of her children, she had systematically worked to eliminate the heir and other members of the Temnikov family. As she spoke, visions of her memories played out before our eyes. It felt like we were the ones brewing the poison, pouring it into food, waiting for news of my death, and hiring assassins to kill George.

The visions ended in sync with Galina’s last words. Her body suddenly went limp, her eyes rolled back, and a thin line of drool slid from her mouth.

“You’ve heard and seen her deeds. Now you may decide—shall she live, or die?” Father said, looking at his still-legal wife. “Just decide mentally. Each of you holds the power to pass judgment. Whichever votes prevail will determine her fate—and the family’s magic will take care of the rest.”

“Death,” I thought, staring at the woman who had murdered three children—and her body disintegrated before our eyes, crumbling to ash, then vanishing into the dark mist.

“You’ve made the right choice,” Father said, casting an approving glance at the children.

“What now?” asked Theodore. “Does this mean we don’t have to worry about assassins anymore?”

“I think so,” Prince Temnikov nodded. “As far as I know, Galina didn’t manage to harm any of you. She’d even canceled the hit on George—but someone got to him anyway.”

“So we will be fighting the assassin league after all,” Ruslan muttered.

“I don’t have ironclad proof of their involvement yet,” Father said, “but I’m working on it. And if it checks out—we’ll strike back.”

“And what about Ivan’s death?” Ignatius shot me a glance. “As far as I understood, he did die—so why is he sitting here now? How’s that possible?”

“You’ll have to ask the late Prince Morozov—your grandfather,” Father replied. “He’s the one who’s somehow managed to bring Ivan back.”

He paused for a moment, then continued.

“Today you witnessed one of the most shocking and vile episodes in our family’s history. It kept me up many nights. I’ll admit—when I found out I’d been poisoned and drugged, it was almost a relief. Though I don’t absolve myself of blame. I hope this serves as a valuable lesson when choosing your future spouse or partner. And I hope Ivan forgives me—eventually.”

“What an eventful day,” said Maria, pale as chalk. “If that’s all the storytelling for tonight, I’m going to lie down. I always feel like throwing up after killing someone I know.”

Chapter 15

“WELL THEN, CONGRATULATIONS on taking the oath!” said Theophane, shaking my hand and giving me a firm hug. “Also, congrats on being the top cadet at the academy. I guess all that blood and sweat we’d spilled in training and out in the Wasteland wasn’t for nothing. I think your grandfather would have been proud.”

“Oh, come on,” I waved him off. “Nothing to be proud of. Best among the worst isn’t exactly a great achievement. Although I’ll admit—your training really helped. Thanks to it, I felt completely at ease and barely broke a sweat.”

“Among the worst, really?” Theophane raised an eyebrow. “Don’t forget—they gathered the best from all the boyar families for this academy. The elite. So no, you’re definitely not the best of the worst. What about your combat skills? Improved in any disciplines? I seriously hope you haven’t stagnated.”

“The only real progress I can point to is in magic,” I confessed. “Though I’ve had plenty of combat practice, too. I’d say, at the very least, I haven’t gotten worse. And given the kind of place I was in, that’s not bad at all. I had very little personal time for solo training.”

“Well, we’ll see soon enough who hasn’t gotten worse. I’ll check out your progress myself,” Theophane smirked. “Are you hungry, by the way? Want to grab a bite? There’s a new restaurant not far from here—food’s amazing. I recommend checking it out today.”

“All right then, let’s go,” I replied after a moment’s thought. “It’s not like I have any deadlines to observe. And I’ve only eaten early this morning before the flight, so I’m all for this perfectly-timed offer.”

“How are things with the Temnikovs?” my mentor asked casually—and then, unexpectedly, added, “Still shrinking fast?”

“You surprise me,” I said, looking at Theophane intently, nudging him for an answer.

“Well…” he shrugged, brushing off an invisible speck from his shoulder. “It’s my job.”

“To surprise people?” I teased.

“To gather information,” he corrected in a calm and even voice. “And as you can see—I’m good at it.”

“I thought your job was to make sure I’m properly protected,” I said.

“That too,” Theophane agreed. But, as an ancient wise man once said, ‘Control information, and you control the world.’”

“You sure someone ancient said that?” I asked skeptically. “Sounds more like a modern saying.”

“It’s always relevant,” the mentor replied.

“So how’d you find out, if you don’t mind my asking?” I asked after a short pause. “No one could have told you what happened in the ritual hall. The family’s magic wouldn’t allow it.”

“Sometimes you don’t need magic to figure things out,” Theophane snorted. “You can piece together a lot from indirect clues—or from fragmented information gathered from different sources. Let’s start with the fact that you do know where I spent about a decade of my life. And I think you’re aware of your mentor’s ability to dig up a ton of dirt and build a proper network of contacts. Putting a few facts together and forming a coherent picture—I can still manage that.”

“I’m impressed,” I admitted thoughtfully.

Interesting… I wondered who else knew what was going on in the Temnikov family.

“After your ‘resurrection,’ I quickly re-established some old connections,” the old man went on. “The rest was a matter of routine. First Galina and Yegor disappear into the ritual hall and then she vanishes. Next thing you know, she appears at the oath ceremony looking like death warmed over. That wasn’t random. Then you suddenly get summoned to the estate. Maria and Anna spend the night crying into their pillows—empty stomachs and all—then Galina vanishes again. So yeah, I had a couple of theories. You just happened to confirm one of them. As you see, ritual magic isn’t always enough to keep things secret if there’s someone nearby who knows how to think. So along with your fighting and magic skills, don’t forget to develop that gray matter,” he hinted.

“Do you remember me ever giving anyone reason to doubt my intellect?” I retorted indignantly.

While we were having our quiet chat, we walked right past the main entrance of the business center on Marchlewsky Avenue and visibly stressed out the entire commission waiting for us in the lobby—led by Byshkovets.

“At least give them a heads-up that we’re out for lunch,” I told my mentor. “Otherwise, they’ll just stand around instead of doing their jobs. Let them know when we’re heading back.”

“They shouldn’t mind waiting a bit for the heir to House Morozov,” Theophane grumbled—but still took my suggestion.

We walked alone, talking uninterrupted, and no one got in our way. My security detail stayed well out of sight, which I appreciated.

“Nice professionals, this crew,” I thought. “I’ll need to get to know them better. Right now I only remember a couple with nice curves—no idea who the rest are.”

I wasn’t too worried about any assassination attempts. If a warrior of Theophane’s rank—a Knight—couldn’t protect my precious body, then no one on my guard team could, either.

A few minutes later, we entered a fairly large and cozy restaurant, settled into a table in a far corner, placed our orders, and started to make our way through a series of dishes that were a little exotic for my stomach.

There were a lot of plates, brought by the waiter—but the portions were tragically small. In the center of each large square plate were tiny servings of meat or mushrooms, garnished with greens and various sauces.

“This is a bit like French cuisine,” I thought, popping a small stuffed mushroom into my mouth.

While we indulged in the sin of gluttony, I gave my mentor a detailed account of the harsh life of an Imperial cadet and answered all his numerous questions.

“Interesting, really interesting,” Theophane murmured, stroking his neatly trimmed beard. “You say you took him down with magic in just a few seconds?”

“I think it was mostly the element of surprise,” I admitted. “If not for that, he would have ground me into dust. I only realized my potential extended beyond martial arts at the very last moment—when it felt like I was out of options.”

“Good that you understand that,” my mentor nodded. “You really are an excellent fighter for your age—but don’t forget the magical side. The Savior has gifted you with many talents.”

“I know,” I nodded. “That’s exactly what I’ve been focusing on lately.”

Theophane’s been bringing up the Savior more and more often lately… getting a little too pious. What was that about, I wondered? Was he preparing for death? Was he sick?

When we finished eating and headed for the exit, a cheerful group of young people entered the restaurant.

One of them glanced briefly at our faces and stopped.

“Who do you remind me of?!” I heard a familiar voice addressing Theophane, and when I focused on the speaker’s face, I recognized a young man I hadn’t parted with on the best of terms. It was Stanislav—or, as I used to call him, Mr. Show-Off. A young boyar’s son with a taste for flashy clothes and an obscene number of tacky gold trinkets. Two years ago, my mentor and I had saved him and four others in the Wasteland, and afterward they trained with Theophane, who taught them to survive on demon-infested territory.

“Still as rude as ever,” Theophane said, having recognized the lad. “Though you’ve definitely toned down the gold, and that’s a real improvement.”

“Theophane?” the young man looked at my mentor in surprise, as if seeing him for the first time. “You look fantastic! I’d never have recognized you if not for this chance meeting!”

Then Stanislav turned to me, surprised again.

“Ivan?! You?!”

“Bingo,” I said, looking at the now-broad-shouldered guy, and poked the bicep that had no business existing on someone my age. “Bulked up nicely. You jog now or something?”

“Huh?” Stanislav didn’t get it at first, then laughed. “Yeah! That, too. After the thrashing you gave me back then, I decided to completely change my life. I ditched my old crowd and chose a different specialization. So now you’re looking at a whole new man—not the moron you remember.”

After a brief pause, he added, unexpectedly:

“I wanted to thank you—for knocking some sense into me. Looking back on it now, I can see what an idiot I was.”

“Well done,” I said, a little thrown. “Didn’t think our training would have such an interesting side effect. But we don’t need anything from you. Your family has already settled the debt. What are you celebrating, by the way?”

“Oh, this…” the guy smiled, glancing at the laughing group behind him. “A long-awaited leave.”

“Where are you studying?” I asked, noting his short haircut and bruised knuckles.

“At the Imperial Guard Academy,” Stas said proudly, then pointed at the table his friends had taken over. “Want to join us?”

“I’d hate to ruin your friends’ fun,” said Theophane. “We’re strangers, after all. Better enjoy your evening properly. We’ve got to be going anyway—we’re already running late.”

The guy nodded, then, after a moment’s thought, pulled a small cardholder from his pocket.

“Here,” he said, offering us a business card. “If you ever need anything, give me a call. I’ll help however I can.”

“Can’t imagine we will,” I said, accepting the stylish little card. “But thanks. We’ll keep it in mind.”

“Goodbye,” Stanislav said, shaking our hands, and returned to his group.

“The Savior moves in mysterious ways,” muttered my mentor, and we finally headed off to work.

* * *

Thanks to an advance warning, Byshkovets and his team met me in the lobby practically in full battle mode.

The young and work-hungry general director proudly took me on a tour of every floor of what had once been a business center and now served as headquarters for the company Information Technologies 2.0, currently staffed to eighty percent capacity with specialists working like bees. He showed me the server rooms, recently finished with state-of-the-art upgrades, then introduced me to the new project teams for MatchUp and Kufar, whose leads gave rather detailed reports on recent progress.

“Are you trying to drown me in a flood of information so I won’t dig any deeper?” I interrupted the spry fifty-year-old in stylish glasses and turned to Byshkovets. “Why do I need to know how many times you’ve tried to code a landing page? Or other technical minutiae? Let’s skip to the main points. What’s our traffic like? Are there trends? Which products are top sellers? How much are we earning on contextual ads, if we have any?”

The man suddenly swallowed hard, looked at Andrei, then at Theophane, then paled a little and began answering rapidly.

“Now that’s better,” I nodded, and turned to the speaker.

“Mr. Jurak, my dear man—why the ghost face? Everything’s fine.”

“Nerves,” he said, darting a glance at my mentor.

“Give the team a bonus equal to one month’s salary,” I said, glancing at Byshkovets—and noted how he visibly perked up.

His face flushed, and a faint smile appeared. The employees nearby lit up in cheerful whispers.

“That’s more like it. Just what I wanted to see,” I nodded with satisfaction and turned to the developers. “I want you to work with inspiration and a good mood—not out of fear. I’ll be digging deep soon, and I’ll need your department’s help. I trust I can count on it?”

“Yes! Of course! One hundred percent!” came a chorus of excited, if uneven, voices.

“What did you do—scare the hell out of them?” I asked my mentor as soon as we stepped into the general director’s office with Byshkovets.

“You gave the order,” he replied calmly. “To screen the staff for spies.”

“Right, I did,” I admitted, then asked with interest, “How many did you find?”

“Seventy-four,” Theophane said just as calmly.

“How many?!” I stared at him in shock. “Where the hell did that many come from?!”

“And that’s clearly not all,” my mentor chuckled and continued. “Your father sent a couple, the competitors planted about ten. Then you caught the attention of the Imperial Security Department and the Internal Security Bureau. The gendarmes, surprisingly modest, only sent two. Oh—and don’t laugh—there was also one from the church.”

“You’re kidding!” I exclaimed. “Even the church?! I get why the gendarmerie would send people—they monitor boyar sentiment, that’s their job. But what’s ISD doing here? There’s no foreign intel or demon cultists in this place! And ISB? What the hell are the secret police doing snooping around?!”

“Why are you so worked up?” Theophane looked at me in surprise. “They’re doing their job, lad. If I were you, I’d focus on the competitors.”

“I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. “Got a bad feeling.”

“About what, specifically?” the mentor asked, instantly tense.

“I don’t know,” I repeated, shaking my head again and listening inward. “The moment you started listing the agencies, it felt like someone was tightening a noose around my neck. Now it’s gone. But it didn’t feel right.”

“Security agencies, you say…” Theophane drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “All right then… let’s check a few things. Sit tight, I’ll give a few orders and be right back.”

“Premonition?” Byshkovets asked warily.

“Yeah,” I nodded.

“And that’s enough to rattle Master Theophane?” Andrey asked in surprise. “I always thought prophets and oracles were all just charlatans.”

“I don’t know,” I shrugged, looking at Andrei. “You’ve been to the Wasteland, right?”

“Of course.” He nodded confidently.

“Then tell me—were there moments when a sergeant, officer, or just an experienced soldier suddenly stopped and said it’d be better to change course or turn back?”

“Yeah, a couple times,” Byshkovets agreed, thinking. “And the commanders almost always listened. But I never got a chance to find out whether anything would have happened if we hadn’t.”

“Something would have. Trust me,” I said with conviction. “I didn’t believe in that sort of thing at first either, but when your gut tells you there’s trouble ahead—and it keeps being right—you start to look at things differently.”

“But if something bad happens to you, it’ll affect Theophane too. And he didn’t sense anything,” Andrey pointed out reasonably.

“I think it’s because I’m more sensitive—being from an old magical bloodline,” I suggested. “And maybe because whatever’s brewing is targeted specifically at me.”

At that moment, my mentor returned to the office.

“My people are on it, the tasks have been assigned. If I find out anything—I’ll let you know right away.”

“Good,” I nodded and picked up where we left off. “So—about those spies from our competitors. Who are they? What do they do? Why are they interested in us?”

Instead of answering, my mentor looked at Byshkovets, who stood, walked over to the wall, opened a safe hidden behind a painting, and pulled out a red folder.

“So that’s how it is,” I said after reading. “They’re eyeing our projects.”

“Nothing surprising about that,” Andrei said. “Our unexpected success has rubbed a lot of people the wrong way. And a bunch of high-paying clients switching to us didn’t help.”

“We need to respond,” I said after a few minutes of silence. “Not just plant people in their organizations—but go after their companies too.”

“And how do you plan to wrest Infokey away from Protasov? He’s backed by the Minister of Information!”

“But the guy himself—he’s a nobody, isn’t he? I mean in terms of social standing.”

“He doesn’t have any,” the mentor nodded. “But with a patron like that, he doesn’t need it.”

“If my plan works, we won’t have to worry about patrons like him.”

The men exchanged glances.

“So here’s the task. Theophane—you’ll brainstorm ways to seize the company by force. Andrei—you’ll plant people inside and work out a softer option: a corporate takeover. I’ll be back during winter break and I’ll want to hear what progress you’ve made. Start slow and quiet. We’ve got plenty of time for a countermove.”

Byshkovets—judging by his eyes—wanted to say something, but didn’t dare.

“We’re growing,” I said with satisfaction after reviewing the company’s quarterly report. “Nice revenue growth—both in information services and in our two key projects.”

“We’re doing our best,” Byshkovets replied in a pleased tone. “Even though most of the profits are going into expansion and upgrades, the numbers are still very solid.”

“Planning to buy another office?” I asked after a while, still focused on the ‘Proposals’ column.

“Looking into the future. Just a thought for now, but I figured I’d include it,” Andrei admitted. “If we keep growing at this pace, our current capacity won’t be enough.”

“But aren’t there still twenty percent of the headquarters unused?” I recalled.

“Yes, but they’re already reserved for expanding departments,” he replied. “Sure, we could just rent more space—but after a few months of owning rather than leasing, I’ve realized it’s better to buy. That way we won’t waste time and money on moving later. Besides, my analysis of the capital’s real estate market suggests it’s cheaper in the long run to buy another building—or at least a couple floors—than to rent indefinitely.”

“There’s just one snag. Where are you going to find a building for sale?” Theophane asked skeptically. “According to my sources, nothing suitable for our needs is currently on the market. You got insanely lucky with this business center. I still can’t believe it.”

“Exactly,” Andrei agreed. “We were unbelievably lucky. But there are companies selling off parts of their buildings—floor by floor. A few are right near us.”

“Alright, let’s hear more,” I prompted.

“At the moment, I know of three decent offers nearby. Apparently the building owners are dealing with financial trouble and are planning to sell parts of their assets to resolve it.”

I looked at my mentor.

“Another great opportunity to test your people in action. They need to gather full intel and do everything possible to bring those properties under our control.”

“And how do you suggest we do that?” Theophane asked. “Not that I can’t handle it myself—but still?”

“Pretty simple. Here’s an example. Buy the available floors—and try to negotiate for more. Not just three, say four. If it works—great. Then make sure everything’s filed properly. The purchase contract should specify what percentage of the building’s management company is being transferred to us. After that, try to buy out shares from other stakeholders, if any. Figure out exactly why the owners decided to sell—and make sure that situation doesn’t improve. Then offer to buy more of the building… I think you can guess the rest.”

“Yeah,” the mentor nodded thoughtfully, giving me a look I hadn’t seen before.

A few days later, once the main inspection phase of the company was complete, I finally turned my full attention to my most important project.

“I don’t understand why you’re paying so much attention to this secondhand goods site,” said Theophane, watching me with interest. “MatchUp alone brings in way more revenue just from ads—never mind all the extra VIP services, boosted profiles in the search results, gifts, and the rest.”

“Looks like you use it, too,” I replied dryly.

“Of course,” my mentor nodded. “There are so many beautiful lonely women on there—you can’t even imagine.”

“You’re right, I probably can’t,” I sighed with exaggerated disappointment, then turned to Andrei. “You don’t get why I’m doing all this, either?”

“Why not?” Byshkovets shrugged. “I figure once we finally reach max user coverage, fine-tune our contextual ads even more, and start charging small fees for posting ads, the revenue will be solid.”

“And that’s just from secondhand listings,” I added. “Let’s not forget the money we’ll get from companies listing their goods directly on their own pages.”

“Well…” Byshkovets dragged the word out thoughtfully, glancing off to the side. “That’s where we’re running into problems.”

“What kind of problems?” I asked. “And why am I only hearing about this now?”

“The issue is, there aren’t that many vendors looking to list with us yet—especially not in the regional towns and districts. And the ones we do have? Small fry. The big players all sell through their own sites. We’re not of much interest to them.”

“For now,” I replied confidently. “Once we’ve got a solid lineup of successful partner companies, the interest will grow.”

“If we can manage to attract the big chains and more of the small players,” Byshkovets corrected. “I’ve been racking my brain, but I still don’t know how to pull that off.”

“That’s easy,” I said. “Let’s create a comparison table for every product listed on our site. Something with technical specs—so customers can add items to a ‘Compare’ category and see exactly how one stacks up against another. And while they’re checking out a product’s features, they should also see links to all the sellers offering it, plus their prices. And there should be a link to verified user reviews with clear pros and cons for that specific item.”

“Whoa…” Byshkovets froze, clearly trying to visualize how to implement it—then looked at me with admiration. “That would be dynamite.”

Without another word, he left the office and headed straight for the Kufar department.

“Despite everything,” I thought, “this site’s potential is even greater than I expected. Strange that no one sees it. Although… maybe I should find out exactly what those intelligence agents Theophane uncovered were looking into. Maybe they figured out what I’m trying to build too.”

Chapter 16

THE MEETING OF THE GORAN ORDER was taking place in its usual location, but today it was unusually lively and emotional.

An older stooped man with an unremarkable face, a fine web of unsightly red capillaries across his sagging cheeks, and a clearly visible bald spot that wasn’t helped by his sparse wispy hair, was giving orders in an unexpectedly firm tone.

“Mr. Romanov,” a stocky man in his sixties, wearing the formal uniform of a minister of the Nosyrian Empire, addressed him after a while. “We understand the importance of this operation, so there’s no need for you to be so anxious. The situation is completely under our control. I can report on what I’ve handled.”

Without waiting for the cardinal’s response, the man continued.

“The soul stones have been placed in special protective boxes and handed over to the leaders of the special strike teams, who are now stationed in safehouses throughout the city and are awaiting orders to place them at the appropriate time and location.”

“Wasn’t that a bit premature?” Romanov frowned. “They’ll attract unnecessary attention from Imperial security.”

“Everything’s under control,” the minister disagreed. “The personnel have been briefed—they’re not going to jeopardize the operation without cause. I sent the best we have. Besides, this isn’t our first time running an op like this. We’ve never had any problems before.”

“All right, if you say so,” Romanov nodded, slightly calmed.

“As for the authorized representatives of the neighboring states,” reported Alexei Cebolín, brushing an invisible speck off his expensive tuxedo, “everything’s already been arranged. Accounts for the money transfers are open, the funds will be routed through front companies. The Tanzinian and Republican forces are already being moved into the country.”

“How’d they manage that so fast?” the minister asked bluntly. “It’s only been two weeks!”

“Fairly easily,” Cebolín chuckled. “They’ve been planning to nibble at the bloated Empire for a while now, and we gave them intel on the defense organization along the border—courtesy of our source. Simple as that.”

“I don’t know…” the minister shook his head. “And they just believed us? You don’t think they’ll double-cross us when it counts?”

“Mr. Kaminski,” Cebolín winced, “I don’t tell you how to assemble strike teams, recruit personnel, or run combat ops. I’m sure that world has all sorts of traps I’d never spot. So don’t tell me how to do my job either. I’m not about to start naming names in the Republican Parliament or in the king’s entourage. Just take it on faith—they latched onto that intel like bulldogs.”

“My apologies,” the minister said, raising his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Diplomacy’s never been my strong suit.”

“The demons are also ready,” said a fourth man in a light turtleneck, trying to lighten the mood. “The malefic squads and their covers are in place and ready for instant deployment.”

“Good,” Romanov replied, tapping his fingers on the table, now visibly calmer. “In that case, you all understand—we’ve reached the final stage of our long and painstaking work. Maybe the opportunity came by chance—but we were fully prepared for it. The Order’s results over such a short period are promising. But we mustn’t relax. The most important thing now is preventing information leaks and executing everything cleanly. That’s the only way we’ll manage not just revenge—but also taking power into our own hands.”

“You think the Emperor will actually risk himself?” Cebolín asked with interest. “I always thought Izasław the Second was the type to think several moves ahead. Cautious. Not the kind to jump into the fire.”

“You’re right,” Romanov nodded. “But in a situation like this, he may not hold back. And if he doesn’t—well, then we’ll have to give him a little push.”

“Give him a push? So Temnikov is involved?” Kaminski ventured. “Who else could get close enough to the Emperor to eliminate him?”

“Where else would he go?” said a smug Cebolín. “Prince Temnikov is extremely promising—he doesn’t shy away from blood sacrifice, which is a rare hobby in today’s world. But sending him to assassinate the Emperor would be a huge waste—and completely misguided. He’d never agree to it.”

“Then how do you plan to use him?” the man asked.

“There are many ways,” Cebolín chuckled. “Murder isn’t the only form of coercion. By the way—it was Temnikov who gave us that intelligence.”

Romanov re-entered the conversation.

“I don’t trust Temnikov. Not at all. He’s too clever for his own good—and a boyar of a golden bloodline, no less, and the head of a house to boot. Men like that don’t like taking orders—especially when they’re being blackmailed. I did verify the information he provided—it checked out. But as for using him in anything serious? Absolutely not.”

“Really?” Cebolín said thoughtfully. “That’s unfortunate. I was already considering ways to use him if we win. I thought he might make a decent head of a provisional government—or some other important organization.”

“Don’t write him out of the political equation,” Romanov said. “I’m talking specifically about combat operations. There’s too much at stake…”

* * *

“Those holidays went by way too fast,” I said, shaking Peskov’s hand. “Barely noticed them pass.”

“Agreed. I didn’t want to come back at all,” he said in solidarity, then added with interest, “So how was your break? I heard you spent all three weeks holed up and only showed your face at your company building. Work, work, and more work? Is the great Ivan Morozov preparing a brand-new killer project?”

“Well, I was invited to a ball,” I smirked. “But yeah, I had a lot on my plate. I’m working on a very important update to my software—something that could change the Empire.”

“Whoa! Just one ball? I went to seven,” Peskov grinned. “So what’s this update? People were talking about something like that at a bunch of parties, so now I’m super curious.”

“They were talking about it?” I asked, mildly intrigued. “And how exactly do you know how I spent my break?”

“You have no idea how nosy the paparazzi can be,” the kid whispered conspiratorially. “Or how scandalized the mothers of charming young ladies get when one of the most eligible bachelors in the Empire skips a reception. People were already gossiping about you before—but after the oath ceremony? It exploded.”

“Big deal,” I said with a shake of my head. “I might have been named top cadet just for political reasons—same as Witowt, who raised the national flag.”

“Well actually,” Peskov replied, not letting that slide, “from what I’ve heard, Witowt’s legit good in a lot of subjects. Some instructors may be inflating his grades every now and then, but he really does put in the work. And don’t forget—you were judged not by the ceremony, but by your whole record—how you trained, how you behaved, and so on.”

I gave a contemplative nod, considering how to approach this kid who was so openly angling for a spot in my inner circle.

This kind of eagerness made one thing obvious: after questioning their children, the aristocrats had realized there wasn’t enough heir to go around—and it was time to start building ties with someone more… approachable. Such as an heir of a golden bloodline, for instance…

“A lot of boyars were eager to get close to you,” Peskov went on. “And your absence just fueled the curiosity…”

He went on at length, detailing the rumors and chatter surrounding my name. He also listed a few families whose representatives were interested in the quality of my company’s work and clearly wanted to become clients...

Once the kid had shared everything he had and strutted out of my room looking thoroughly pleased with himself, I was left alone—and started thinking about why I hadn’t really gotten a proper break this holiday.

If Father hadn’t randomly shown up at my house and started working with me on combat magic, I might have actually had time to relax.

Having passed through the perimeter defense like it wasn’t even there, Prince Temnikov was met at the doorstep by Theophane—and immediately expressed his unfavorable opinion of both the magical and technical security systems.

Then he finally explained why he’d come.

“I won’t go into unnecessary detail, but a couple of hours ago, during one of the family rituals, I sensed a mortal threat hanging over Ivan. So I came.”

My mentor and I exchanged glances.

“Ivan felt something like that recently, too,” Theophane said. “So I’ll take your comments about the security very seriously—but I have a counteroffer. Since Ivan’s on break, why don’t you work on his magical training? I’m sure a mage of your level could teach him a lot.”

“Deal,” Father said seriously, turning to me. “So—you felt danger too?”

I nodded.

“I figure if nothing happens before school starts up again, they probably won’t reach me at the academy. The security there’s solid.”

“You’re right—but even so, stay alert,” Father said. Then he checked the time and added, “We don’t have much. If you’re serious about training in magic, you’re going to have to work your ass off. You ready?”

The question was rhetorical—because ten minutes later, we were already at the magic training ground.

“Show me what you can do using your family talents,” he said at once.

“All I can do?” I replied, layering my voice with an extra chill to knock him off balance a little. Judging by the involuntary tension that crept into Temnikov’s posture, it worked.

“Interesting ability. I remember your grandfather used to do that whenever he wanted people to listen closely,” Father said.

“That’s an idea,” I thought to myself. “Why didn’t I ever ask Theophane what kind of family spells Grandpa had used? Why reinvent the wheel if I could just repeat them?”

“And don’t worry about using your spells on me if it helps illustrate,” Father continued. “I’m confident nothing of what you can throw can hurt me, and for you, it’ll be extra practice—and a good test of the constructs.”

“Sounds good,” I replied with satisfaction, and once he nodded, I lobbed a fast-spinning ice snowball at him.

“Getting better every time,” I thought with satisfaction, watching the orb whip through the air at impressive speed.

After throwing a few more similar spells and watching them shatter on Temnikov’s shield, I launched a much faster, upgraded Ice Screw—my latest invention, and one I had high hopes for.

To our mutual surprise, the icy projectile didn’t break apart when it hit Father’s shield. On the contrary—the “screw” seemed to find a gap in the barrier and began burrowing into it. It got about a third of the way in before being stopped by his dark aura.

“Incredible,” Father said, kneeling to examine the fragments of ice. “I’ve never seen such a simple spell penetrate a shield so easily. What’s more—it burrowed in instead of breaking it. Where did you learn this?”

“Made it up myself,” I said. “After we heard—again—at our intro firepower class about how automatic rifles work, and what gives bullets their penetration power. I figured I’d try applying some of those principles when designing spells. I mean, it’s not that special. I doubt I’m the first one to think of using physics for spell design. There’s a reason we’re taught to twist most combat constructs.”

“The ridges?” Father pointed at the upgraded icicle with a design borrowed from a metal self-tapping screw, which, unlike a wood screw, had not only denser threading but also an extra flat tip that worked like a drill.

“Saw it back in Morshansk,” I replied. “One of our neighbors was replacing his wooden fence with sheet metal, and, of course, he used screws like that. I remember being surprised at how easily they went into the metal. So I figured it might be interesting to replicate that form using an icicle—pack it with a ton of mana and make it as dense as possible. Honestly, I was hoping for penetration power, but I had no idea it would actually screw in. If your shield hadn’t been so refined, or if it had been closer to your body, I might have injured you.”

“The thing is, if you’d tried to create something like this with classical magic,” Father said, “you’d first drown in calculations, then wonder where all your energy went. So this ‘screw’s’ success mostly comes from your bloodline gift. You also said you pumped a lot of energy into the spell, which definitely increased its hardness and mass. Plus, don’t forget how weak my shield was. It was a basic one, using way less energy than your spell. I think that’s why the screw didn’t shatter—and thanks to the spin and the shape, it burrowed right in.”

Father finally tossed the shattered bits of the icicle aside and added:

“It’s a very interesting spell—we’ll definitely keep working on it until you fully understand what you’re capable of. But for now, let’s see what else you’ve got.”

In the tests that followed, I launched a few spears at my father, then some upgraded versions, then a full volley of a dozen ice balls and icicles at once.

That last trick let me both distract him and coat the floor with a thick layer of ice. Father slipped, flailed awkwardly, and fell backward—but didn’t hit the ground. A massive dark tendril sprouted from his back and caught him mid-fall.

“Slippery,” Father said, and just then the ice beneath his hand sprouted tentacles and latched onto his wrist. His legs got the same treatment, with the ice thickening by the second.

“Slow,” Father said, shaking his head. “Way too slow. You need to be much faster.”

Somehow, he’d already freed one arm and was rising with the help of his tendril, so I sprinted forward and stopped about six feet away, raised both hands, and hit him with a freeze spell. A concentrated stream of “cold” surged through the air, met Father’s shield, and began rapidly spreading frost around its edges.

“What happens if that hits a person?” Father asked, even as he freed his legs and stepped out of the ice trap, now sealing up behind him.

“I assume they’d get locked in a thick layer of ice,” I replied, “which would keep them from moving—and give me an easy kill.”

“Promising spell,” Temnikov said with a nod. “We’ll refine that one too. For now, let’s keep going.”

A few minutes later, I had to admit I had nothing left to show.

My last spells were a trio of ice shurikens, a fairly large ice block, and an ice sword.

“That’s all,” I said. “Now I’m really tapped out.”

“Not as much as I’d hoped, but more than I expected,” Father said thoughtfully. “Your brain clearly works—but you still haven’t grasped that bloodline magic is only limited by your imagination.”

The next instant, he unleashed a full torrent of Darkness, which split into multiple strands, bypassed my ice shield, and wrapped around my limbs.

“From now on,” he said, releasing me, “your bloodline magic should become your fifth limb.”

When I finally refocused on him, he sprouted two dark tendrils from his back that latched onto the ceiling and lifted him a few feet off the ground—then added two more below.

“What the hell. Spider-Man, seriously?” I thought. “Or maybe more like Doctor Octopus? Four limbs and definitely not a nice guy.”

“How much mana do those things eat?” I asked, eyeing the thick, powerful columns of darkness with curiosity.

“Almost none,” Father replied. “It’s a bloodline spell I’ve used a lot. Over and over.”

He looked me over again and continued,

“What I want is for you to understand that a mage from an ancient line has a huge advantage—his bloodline magic, which, when properly trained, drains almost no mana. That’s what we’ll focus on. I hope it gives you better odds of staying alive.”

“That’s nonsense,” I said. “I do feel the mana drain when I use bloodline magic. It’s less than standard spells, sure—but still noticeable.”

“That’s because you’re only an Adept,” Father said, wincing. “Once you’re at least a Bachelor, you’ll understand. For now—let’s test your ‘screws’ and your ‘cold stream’ some more.”

Despite both of us having ominous premonitions, nothing bad actually happened to me. Neither during the holidays, nor at the academy. Everything went on as usual. If anything, it seemed like the officers were treating us more leniently after the boot camp cycle—but that was probably just wishful thinking.

The new trimester at the cadet academy brought a few changes. For example, we were now allowed to have mobile phones—though here, they were called SPRUs (the acronym stood for Subscriber Portable Radio Unit). Naturally, every cadet asked why we couldn’t just use the civilian name—but, unsurprisingly, we never got an answer.

Still—whatever. The important thing was that I could finally—even if remotely—manage my company and keep in touch with my mentor, my siblings, and the few friends I had. I couldn’t say much over such an unsecured line—but even that was something. Before, it had been downright miserable.

But even that privilege wasn’t without complications.

As it turned out, we had to hand over our phones to the squad leader, who kept them locked in a special cabinet. Use was allowed only in the evenings, during personal time.

Still—that was better than nothing.

Once they found out they’d be allowed to have mobile phones, the cadets had all gone out and bought themselves a few extra gadgets in advance—and were now playing a fun little game with their squad leaders called Find-Me-If-You-Can.

Unfortunately, not everyone was particularly clever about it, which meant we often had to cover for our less gifted comrades by running a few miles in full gear to make up for their screw-ups.

All in all, life got a bit easier after the holidays. There was a clear drop in the frequency of emergency wake-up calls, and the hazing of the ranks had almost entirely stopped. But we were still feeling squeezed dry every morning during PT, at the shooting range, and on the magical training ground.

On top of that, it didn’t take long to notice that Peskov wasn’t the only one trying to get closer to me—more than half the entire class have followed suit. Not just from my squad, but from other units as well.

I wasn’t pushing anyone away—unlike Glinov, for example, who’d called one cadet a clown for his bloodline gift of creating illusions. Guess his family had washed his brain all over again during the break.

That was fine by me. Attitudes like that toward combat brotherhood would only push more people toward me—and I needed those connections. Desperately.

Besides, I had to admit—much to my chagrin—that my relationship with Witowt had gotten noticeably worse. All because of the announcement of the so-called ranking list. They showed the whole class not just my score, but also the scores of the lower ranks.

Honestly, it wasn’t a pleasant experience—especially for the five cadets who ended up at the bottom. In both squad and class standings. They even announced the best and worst cadet in each unit. I don’t know what some of the boys were feeling, but I could have sworn I heard teeth grinding a few times. And I sincerely hoped that spite wasn’t directed at me.

Being the top cadet, and far ahead of Witowt and a few others chasing me, wasn’t exactly great for diplomacy. That kind of thing could turn a lot of neutral classmates against you—especially the Crown Prince.

And the worst part? I needed that guy. I truly did. Not just as a Morozov heir, but as a young entrepreneur who had decided to start playing adult games. A little protection from the Imperial House wouldn’t hurt—and that meant that sooner or later, like it or not, I was going to have to patch things up with the heir.

“We’ve got a new subject today,” Ogneyer said as he walked beside me. “Advanced Demonology. You heard of it?”

“Only that it exists,” I replied. “Why?”

“I heard it’s taught by the head of the academy himself—and it’s supposed to be really useful,” explained Godimir.

“In that case, we’d better move it,” I said, picking up the pace. “Wouldn’t want to show up late for someone that strict.”

Chapter 17

THE HEAD OF THE CADET ACADEMY—Archmage Aleksey Grozov—was already in the lecture hall by the time we arrived. Arms crossed over his chest, he stood by the window, silently watching as cadets from different units filled the empty seats.

Today’s lesson wasn’t taking place in our usual classrooms, where we sat by platoon. Instead, it was being held in what was called the lecture theater—an amphitheater-style room with rows of desks sloping upward for better visibility and clarity. There was a wide gap—maybe four or five yards—between the front row and the instructor’s desk. A massive blackboard covered the wall, and a projector was mounted from the ceiling.

Usually, this was where we had introductory lessons or theory-based classes that didn’t require any practical training.

Which made sense—why waste three instructors on theory when one would do just fine?

But today, unlike past lectures held here, there was something new—an unfamiliar object pressed right up against the instructor’s desk. It looked like a small refrigerator draped with thick green cloth.

“No way… Surely not?” I thought, staring. “They can’t possibly mean for this ‘advanced’ demonology to be that advanced. Are they actually going to show us a dissected demon? Or just a few body parts? Then why the cloth? Suspense?”

The last ones to enter were the unit commanders—something I’d never seen happen before. They quickly checked attendance, reported to the archmage, then took seats in the front row—after shifting the cadets who were sitting there out of the way.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Grozov said in a deep commanding voice.

Once we’d returned the greeting, he launched into his speech.

“For this entire trimester, your demonology lessons will be… rather unorthodox. I assume you’ve already figured that out,” he said, gesturing to the covered object. Grozov paused for a long moment to gather his thoughts, then continued. “As you all know, the entire world—and our nation with it—is locked in a long-standing war against invaders from beyond, known as demons. In your demonology courses, you’ve already studied the types of lesser infernal creatures, and you understand, at least in theory, what to expect from them. But there’s a difference between understanding... and knowing. Between reading about them—and facing them eye to eye.”

That got the boys whispering and glancing at each other.

“You’re kidding me?” I thought, now seriously doubting the thing under the cloth was a fridge.

“Did I give permission to speak?” Grozov asked in a very quiet voice—and the room fell into a deathly hush.

“Thank you,” he said, sweeping us with a cold assessing gaze. His voice softened, but turned even more precise. “Each cadet in this room is not just a man—not just a warrior and a mage—but more importantly, a boyar. A member of nobility, tasked with defending our homeland and its citizens from enemies. You’ve sworn your oaths—and if you encounter otherworldly filth, you are obligated to destroy it.”

After giving us another sharp look, Grozov continued.

“I understand well that it’s difficult for young soldiers to fight an unknown and terrifying enemy. One you’ve heard all kinds of stories about, but only know in theory. That’s why I insisted this new course, Advanced Demonology, be added to the academy curriculum. And, fortunately, our resources allow for it.”

He raised a hand toward the shrouded object, snapped his fingers—and revealed, to the stunned cadets, a cage made of thick horizontal bars, inside which sat a demon.

The portable cell door was immediately pounded from the inside by a furious Dwarf Saw. The demon shrieked continuously, but not a sound reached us. In fact, there was no visible impact from the blows at all—not even a vibration, which made it obvious the cage was heavily enchanted.

“The cell is configured this way,” Grozov said, answering someone’s unspoken question, “to make sure our new friend doesn’t interfere with the lesson. But don’t worry—you’ll hear how unpleasant he sounds soon enough. Most importantly, I want each of you to leave this course knowing exactly what demons are—and how to fight each kind effectively.”

“But it’s just a weak Dwarf Saw,” Glinov muttered to someone beside him. “It doesn’t even have a tail. Weakest of the weak. Why even bother studying that one?”

That remark might have gone down as nothing more than swagger meant exclusively for the other boys—except the noise in the room abruptly cut off, and the whole sentence rang out crystal clear.

“You truly believe that, Cadet Glinov?” the archmage asked coldly. “It’s just a weak Dwarf Saw? Not worth studying?”

“Yes,” the boy said, trying to sound confident as he lifted his chin proudly. He wasn’t planning on backing down. “It’s a weak and stupid demon. Anyone here could handle it.”

“You’re that confident in yourself?” Grozov pressed. “Dwarf Saws like pain—and it’ll try to rip your guts out. You’re sure you could handle it if it came at you unexpectedly?”

“I’m sure,” the boy insisted.

“Excellent. Then we have our first volunteer to demonstrate how to fight this type of demon,” the man said. He turned towards Oleg and commanded, “Come on down.”

While Glinov descended the steps with a stiff posture, his face pale and forehead slick with sweat, the archmage quickly summoned a barrier spell in the space between the front row and his desk—forming a safe zone for the upcoming duel, unexpected as it was. He created visible shields on the walls and ceiling, and laid a protective ward on the floor.

“As you can see, Glinov, the improvised arena is quite small,” Grozov noted. “And even a Dwarf Saw this weak is agile and fast. Keep that in mind.”

“I’ve taken that into account,” the boy said, his knees trembling ever so slightly.

“Then you’re ready for combat?”

“I am!” Oleg declared, tensing like someone about to plunge into freezing water.

“I understand why he’s scared,” I thought. “I remember being terrified too, the first time I went into the Wasteland with my mentor. Knowing the Dwarf Saw is technically the weakest demon and actually facing one are very different things—especially when it still very much wants to tear you apart.”

“You’re sure you’re ready?” the archmage asked one last time, and once Glinov gave a final nod, the iron cage door slid upward—and the demon, as if waiting for the cue, lunged straight at the boy.

“Weird that the Dwarf Saw didn’t go for the closest person—the sergeant sitting in the front row,” I thought. “What’s the deal? Did the archmage add some sort of shielding layer that hides the people inside from the demon’s perception but still lets us watch from outside?”

Meanwhile, the demon neatly dodged a couple of Glinov’s spells—though one had clipped it pretty good—and started darting from side to side in short, sharp bursts, weaving through spells as it closed in.

Thrown by how ineffective his not-so-weak spells were proving, Oleg switched to wide-area strikes and dropped what I mentally labeled Quicksand onto the floor. I had no clue what it was actually called, but that was what it looked like to me.

Somehow sensing the threat below, the demon launched itself over the trap with a single explosive leap. The wide-area spells missed entirely, barely grazing it. Once it landed just a few feet from Glinov—who was backing away fast—it dodged a spray of earthen spikes, then darted in and slashed, trying to rip a chunk out of the boy’s thigh.

It didn’t succeed, although Oleg hit the floor, bleeding and screaming at the top of his lungs. Grozov didn’t let the demon finish him off—he caught it mid-lunge with a spell and flung it back into the cage. The door slammed shut, and the furious demon resumed thrashing—silently once again.

The sergeants were quick to reach Glinov, giving him first aid before handing him over to the healers who’d just arrived.

“Huh… I didn’t even notice when Grozov dropped the barrier field around the arena.”

“So much for the weakest demon that ‘anyone’ can beat,” the archmage said, sweeping the room with a hard, assessing gaze once Oleg had been patched up and reseated and the room had settled. “Don’t let the small size fool you. Just because this creature looks weaker than, say, an Anthro or a Nocer doesn’t make it any less dangerous. This thing is from another world—its first instinct is to revel in your pain before it kills you. It’s small, fast, and twitchy. Glinov had a chance, but too many of his spells missed the mark.”

No one dared challenge him after that. Grozov’s gaze sharpened.

“Does anyone else wish to prove themselves? Show us how to fight the ‘weakest’ kind of demon—no tail, no wings? Well? Any takers?”

The boys glanced around, but not a single hand went up.

“Morozov wants to,” said one of Witowt’s flunkies suddenly, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Let’s see what makes him worthy of being ranked so high. And who better to fight a Dwarf Saw than the academy’s top cadet?”

“What is his problem?” I thought, shooting an irritated look toward the heir. Meanwhile, a plan was already forming in my head.

“I agree,” came Glinov’s spiteful voice. “The best should set the example.”

“What are you chiming in for? Fancy yourself being among the ‘best’?” Ogneyer muttered beside me. “You nearly pissed yourself from a scratch, and now you’ve got opinions?”

Training in a male combat unit had made Godimir rougher, louder, and more direct—but I couldn’t say that was a bad thing.

“Quiet!” Grozov barked, silencing the whole room instantly. He turned to me. “At the moment, each cadet decides their own limits. One more comment like that, and the speaker will be next in the ring. However, I will say this—if anyone here could handle it, it’d be the cadet in question. What do you say, Morozov?”

“I can handle it,” I replied calmly, rising and heading down the steps.

“Let’s see what a little live action does for my standing among the cadets,” I said to myself. Why not score a few extra points? And maybe knock Glinov down a few more pegs while I’m at it. After that loss, my win would stand out even more. I had no intention of losing to some Dwarf Saw.

“Rip that thing apart,” Ogneyer said lazily, without a hint of doubt. “Preferably in multiple different ways.”

“Now there’s an idea,” I thought, taking position on the far side of the cage.

Noticing my movement, the demon stopped licking Glinov’s blood from its claws and crouched by the gate, quivering with anticipation.

“Ready?” the archmage asked, reactivating the protective barriers.

Instead of answering, I summoned an Ice Saber in my hand. I’d gotten used to cold weapons in the Wasteland—nothing like a solid blade to help keep distance.

The moment the cage door began to rise, the Dwarf Saw lunged with explosive force—straight into a rising wall of ice. The wall went soft and malleable on contact, grabbing the demon’s limbs and freezing them in place.

“One,” I said, glancing at the boys, then dispelled the binding spell.

Shaking off the ice, the demon let out a soundless scream and lunged. It easily dodged several Ice Balls, skating across the slick floor with ease using its claws. But then its legs froze to the surface—and two more Ice Balls slammed into its head. Unlike Temnikov, this creature couldn’t break out of the ice trap.

“Two,” I said, then slipped into Shiki-Cho stance and dropped the spell.

The Dwarf Saw lunged again—and caught a Battering Ram full to the chest, slamming into the barrier wall.

“Three.”

Its next lunge was weaker—I caught it mid-air with a Sith Hand, lifted the writhing demon by its neck, and said:

“Four.”

“I think that’ll do,” said the archmage, appearing beside me and gesturing to the cage. “Throw it back in.”

As his words landed, I heard the gasps ripple through the cadets behind me.

The contrast with Glinov’s performance could not have been starker.

“Can you gut it, too?” shouted Witowt’s cheeky neighbor.

“Would need to kill it first,” I said coolly, infusing my voice with ice, “and this one’s a teaching aid.”

The boy choked on his next line and shut right up.

“We’ve got plenty more of these teaching aids,” the archmage said with interest, his eyes on me. “But dissection will be the subject of the second lesson.”

“Your turn,” I said to the boy who’d nominated me for the fight earlier just to suck up to Witowt.

“No way I can do that,” he said in an almost flippant manner. “That kind of thing takes strength. I prefer using my head.”

“You’re a coward,” Godimir declared flatly. He stood up and turned to the archmage. “Sir, with your permission, Third Platoon would like to demonstrate how you’re supposed to fight demons.”

“Permission granted,” the man nodded, then shot a glance at my former opponent. “And afterward, we’ll see what Novak can do—he’s been talking far too much today.”

After a long break, the archmage returned to his role as instructor.

“Morozov, we’re all aware of your impressive combat skills,” Grozov addressed me, then corrected himself. “For someone your age, of course. So your victory wasn’t exactly surprising. However, it seemed to me you were unusually well prepared—specifically for fighting Dwarf Saws. And the question of dissection remains. Are you truly capable? Have you been into the Wastelands?”

“I have, and I am,” I replied, already sketching out a new plan for the evening based on this unexpected turn.

“Then to the instructor’s table, if you would,” he gestured. A long, narrow slab already stood ready, surrounded by two dozen containers filled with various unmarked fluids.

“Not exactly thrilled to revisit this part of my misspent youth, but so be it,” I thought with a sigh. “Today’s lesson will burn itself into these cadets’ minds—and it’ll put my authority on a level no one else can touch.”

I pulled the Dwarf Saw from its cage using Sith’s Hand, and snapped its neck in the least pleasant way possible, making it crunch loud enough for the whole class to hear. A bunch of the boys flinched—Taranov and my recent antagonist among them.

“Now they get it. That I could’ve done the same thing to any one of them ages ago,” I thought with satisfaction. “Sure, they knew it before—but knowing is one thing, and seeing, quite another. Hopefully this’ll cool off a few hot heads.”

I laid the limp demon on the table, picked up the razor-sharp knife lying next to it, and got to work.

“For alchemists, the heart and kidneys of this species are especially valuable,” I explained, slicing clean down the belly and chest. “The rest can be used too, since demons are saturated with unique magical emanations. But it’s worth so little that most freelance hunters don’t bother with it in the Wastelands.”

Widening the incision, I moved into the usual rhythm of the procedure, making sure to explain each step as clearly as I could. Unsurprisingly, a few green-faced boys started passing out or throwing up.

“Poor kids. It’s a rough day for them,” I thought, watching them as memories of my first dissection floated up. “Good thing Grozov had the foresight to hand out special sick-bags and cast a ventilation spell. Otherwise this room would have been impossible to stay in.”

Ten minutes later, I rinsed my hands slowly in a basin set nearby, wiped them with a snowy-white towel, and called out:

“Any questions?”

I looked straight at Witowt as I asked. He dropped his gaze immediately.

“No questions,” I said, scanning the rows of cadets. “Very well.”

* * *

“Hey, Nikola. What are you up to? Waiting on someone?” I said smoothly, stepping up behind him.

Taranov flinched at my voice and turned quickly, nervous as hell.

“I-Ivan? Hey. Nah, just sitting,” he stammered, trying and failing to pull himself together.

“Sure. And how’s the recon going? Dig up anything interesting? On me, or maybe the guys?” I asked casually, taking a few slow steps forward.

“What are you talking about?” he said, backing up without realizing it, going pale as snow.

“Oh, come on now.” I gave him a long, surprised look. “Don’t play dumb. Who here’s been feeding Witowt squad-level intel? Who’s been whispering that Ivan Morozov is such a menace? Not me, obviously.”

“I didn’t…” he began, but I cut him off with a single sharp gesture.

“I know everything, Nikola,” I said. “Your only chance to not make things worse is to turn around and walk away. You’ll do it on your own two feet. If not, I’ll help you a little.”

“Screw you!” Taranov exploded. “Yeah? Show me what you’ve got then! I’m no weakling, you know—my bloodline’s got real power! You want a taste? Fine! I’ll—”

Whatever he was going to say, I never found out. I stepped in and delivered a practiced uppercut to his chin that dropped him cold.

“What do you know, he’s not as worthless as I thought,” I muttered, catching his limp body and signaling toward the bushes.

Two guys immediately emerged and grabbed Taranov, hauling him off without a word.

Right on time. I could already hear footsteps.

I turned my back so I wouldn’t be immediately recognized. Then waited.

Witowt showed up with two of his usual shadows. They figured something out fast—slowed their pace, then stopped a few feet from me.

“Why so shy?” I said, standing up. “Come on over. Have a seat.”

“Why would we sit here with you, butcher?” one of the boys snapped. “We’re just passing by.”

“Well, well. Got myself a new nickname already? That was fast.”

“Oh? Just passing by?” I asked, putting maximum skepticism into my voice. “Funny. I could’ve sworn Witowt was fond of sitting here. Especially with someone from my squad. Like Taranov, say.”

“That’s none of your business,” the heir snapped, unable to keep quiet any longer.

“There it is. Knew he’d bite eventually.”

“You’re wrong,” I said, adding some “chill” into my voice. I took a step closer. “Any attempt to discredit the Morozov line is my business.”

Witowt kept glaring, lips tight—he knew I’d caught him red-handed. His entourage paled.

“Do you have proof?” the heir asked, scowling.

“This is no court, and I’m not a prosecutor,” I replied, meeting his gaze. “But if I really wanted to, I could dig up a few interesting recordings. Pass them on to the Emperor, even. But as it stands, they’re still with me.”

Witowt stayed silent, not offering excuses. He understood perfectly well I hadn’t come over for no reason.

“We need to talk,” I said, getting straight to the point. “Alone.”

“And why would I want that?” the boy asked haughtily.

“Because it’s in our mutual interest,” I said, gesturing to a bench and patting the spot beside me. “Sit.”

After a while, Witowt finally made up his mind, waved the others off, and took a seat next to me.

“Well? What did you want to talk about?” he asked coldly.

“The relationship between the heir of the imperial line and the heir of a princely house,” I replied.

“There is no relationship,” he said with a scowl. “A prince’s son shattered what little trust there was.”

“Tell me something,” I said instead of defending myself. “Would you betray your family? Would you betray your father?”

“Never in my life,” Witowt snapped, eyes flashing.

“Then why do you assume I should?” I shot back in the same tone. “Why do you think I’d betray my house, my father, my blood—just because someone’s told me to?”

“I didn’t ask for that! I needed your help with something important and you said no! And the Temnikovs aren’t even your house! You’re a Morozov! The blood magic has confirmed it!”

“Changing my name doesn’t erase blood ties,” I countered. “Even the Emperor acknowledged that when he passed on what was due to my father. Blood is blood. It’s way thicker than water. So don’t act like you had the right to make me choose.”

“What are you even rambling about?!” Witowt exploded, jumping to his feet. “What, now I’m getting lectured, too? I’ve already heard enough from my father! You think we’re here at this academy just for fun, eh? This is punishment! He decided I needed some time in a good old-fashioned corrective facility and dumped me here! You think it’s easy following all these orders? Drills, formations, all this crap? I’m one step away from snapping—and it’s all because of you!”

“Oh, really? Because of me?” I didn’t bother holding back either. “You tried to use me—and my house—for your own gain. You expected me to roll over and let myself be robbed like a grateful little rat?! Get a grip! You know what you did was wrong. Or are you going to pretend it wasn’t?”

“…Yeah. I acted wrong,” Witowt admitted after a pause. “So what now?”

“Now,” I said calmly, sitting back down, “I’ll say this—you’ve got guts. You’ve got some concept of honor and dignity. So maybe we can talk business.”

“What business?” Witowt frowned, clearly not expecting that turn.

“Serious business,” I said, looking him straight in the eye. “I get that you want to protect your father’s assets. I’m not very fond of how you went about it—but I get it. And I’m starting something new. Something that could make a lot of money. Something that could change the game in a lot of industries. And a potential partner of your caliber would come in real handy.”

“Huh… All right, let’s talk,” Witowt said, his tone suddenly intrigued.

Chapter 18

THE RULER OF THE NOSYRIAN EMPIRE, Izasław IV, settled comfortably at his desk and picked up the folder delivered by courier with great interest.

He was intrigued not only by the unexpected call from his son—who rarely showed such courtesy—but also by the contents of their conversation.

“What has Morozov cooked up this time? And how’s he planning to get his foot in that market?” Izasław mused aloud, flipping through the pages.

“Ah. So that’s the idea. He wants to launch a project for selling ingredients gathered in the Wasteland… using his second-hand goods platform as the base?” the emperor muttered thoughtfully. “So there’s going to be a new section for freelance hunters on the site, eh? With personal pages, both for individuals and for their squads—with mission logs and ingredient haul displays. There’s even going to be a reputation score and a feedback wall. Clever bastard!” the emperor exclaimed after a moment, clearly impressed. “He’s planning to link the customs bureau’s database to his site, to provide a more objective view of the hunters’ activities. All in the name of protecting those poor souls, of course! Not a whiff of personal gain, heavens no.”

As he continued reading through the business plan, Izasław came across a section labeled “Bulletin Board.”

“So he’s proposing a system where a client can post a job and wait for a squad to take it up? Hm… that’s not so different from how the hunter exchanges already work. The ones who can handle a job are the ones who take it,” he said aloud, leaning back in his chair and settling in. “Well, there’s definitely something to this. The state might get the chance to not only centralize the trade in valuable ingredients, but also develop the sector and partially regulate the movement of strategic materials within the country.”

Izasław had no doubt Morozov’s latest project would succeed. He appreciated the new platform’s utility and features—ones that would win over freelance hunters quickly and eventually squeeze out the regional exchanges still clinging to life. Those exchanges, after all, were localized, and sales often took far too long to go through. Can’t sell your Betlor wings in Old Streets? Then check the listings in neighboring towns—maybe someone there needs what you’ve got. And if not, just post an ad. The ease and convenience would win everyone over. That’s how it always worked.

“But there’ll be plenty of people who won’t like this,” the emperor thought. “From city commandants, whose budgets rely partly on ‘voluntary’ donations from hunter exchanges, to big names in the pharmaceutical trade—some of whom come from boyar families.”

Returning to the documents, the monarch occasionally paused to jot notes in his work notebook.

Had Witowt been present, he would have taken that as a clear sign the Emperor was interested.

“Ah, now we’re getting to the shares,” the emperor murmured with satisfaction, studying the page closely. “So Morozov gets twenty-five percent, Temnikov and I get fifteen each, and the remaining forty are split among the commandants and others involved. Uh… that’ll definitely take the edge off regional tensions and help encourage well-rounded development of this new platform.”

Izasław reviewed the documents one last time, then murmured in a pensive voice,

“Do I really need such sweeping changes in this sector? Probably yes. It’s time to take control of the field anyway—it had to be done sooner or later. And since the initiative didn’t come from me, that’s a definite bonus…”

The emperor was quietly pleased by the thought of how certain unscrupulous types—those who overcharged for medicinal goods and ignored the polite suggestions of the State Oversight Committee—were about to be in for a surprise.

“Serves them right,” Izasław decided, picking up the phone to call his secretary.

“Tomorrow at ten, bring in everyone from List Five to the small conference room.”

“Economic sector,” the secretary said, jotting it down. “Topic?”

“The impact of the Infernal Wasteland on the country’s economic and other processes.”

Satisfied his loyal aide understood, Izasław hung up and murmured quietly:

“Well then. Time to get things moving.”

* * *

“My word, you actually came in through the door today, not the window like usual,” said the head of the Temnikov family, dining alone in the manor’s great hall. “What’s gotten into you? Losing your edge?”

“I saw how ridiculous you looked recently on the Morozovs’ doorstep and figured I’d show up like a proper guest this time,” Theophane replied, taking the seat Prince Yegor had pointed out.

“Want a shot of the good stuff?” Temnikov asked, nodding toward the frosty decanter. “Hungry?”

The Knight nodded. Once the maid brought his meal, the two men downed their shots without clinking glasses.

“So what brings you here, old man?” Temnikov asked with a smirk, popping a spicy gherkin into his mouth.

“Paying you an official visit, Yegor,” Theophane replied, not missing a beat. He reached into his leather briefcase and pulled out a heavy cardboard folder. “Ivan called. Said you need to see this immediately. A matter of life and death—and he’s sure it’ll catch your interest.”

“My, what a business-minded son I’ve got,” Temnikov said in a tone hard to place. He refilled their glasses. “One more.”

Once the decanter and lunch were polished off, the men made their way to Temnikov’s study.

“Well then, let’s have a look,” Temnikov said, diving into the text.

The steady rise of the prince’s eyebrows was like balm to the Knight’s soul.

“He really thought this through,” Temnikov said, scanning line after line. “I’m not fully convinced this kind of system can run properly or be profitable… but taking into account Ivan’s past ventures, and just how thoroughly he mapped out this one—well, that changes things. I especially like the way the shares are divided. Ivan’s trying to frame it as if he, Izasław, and I are equal partners, but we both know that’s not how it works…”

After a pause, Temnikov added,

“So the emperor’s his ticket to administrative muscle and a shield against the boyars and officials we’re about to thoroughly shake with these new rules. And me? I’m the shield between Ivan and the emperor.”

“You’ve got it exactly right,” the Knight said with satisfaction, leaning back in his chair. “And also to serve as a lightning rod in case things go south with the boyar clans.”

“Then tell me—why the hell should I get involved at all?” Temnikov asked. “Why should I take on so many obligations?”

“Ivan said that before George’s death, you gave him a mission—to break into the ingredients market. So clearly, this line of work interests you. Your son’s helping you follow through. It’s a long game, but the profits will be worth it. I mean, there’s a reason you were offered a full fifteen percent! And having the same share as the emperor? That’s no small honor. He’s reviewing the proposal today, by the way. That’s why I’m here and not Ivan.”

“Did you personally hand the folder to the Emperor too?” Temnikov joked.

“Ivan passed it through Witowt,” the Knight replied breezily.

“They’re not enemies anymore?” the prince asked, frowning.

“They were, but Ivan has found a way in. It’s water under the bridge now. Shared interests tend to do that,” Theophane said with a grin.

He was clearly proud of his protégé’s success on every front.

Temnikov fell silent, scrutinizing the man across from him. Then he spoke, quiet and low.

“You trained him well. The changes in him after two years away from home… they’re massive. He’s a skilled fighter, a powerful mage, a brilliant strategist, an effective leader, a successful entrepreneur—and now, it turns out, even a capable negotiator,” Temnikov said. Theophane smiled faintly, but the smile vanished when the prince finished in a hard tone. “And to think, I never realized just how broad your knowledge was. What, you teaching corporate management now in the middle of the ‘Deathfall’ course? Or maybe negotiation tactics?”

“What are you trying to say?” Theophane asked calmly.

“You know damn well,” Temnikov snapped. “I want to know who—and when—took my son’s place.”

“What makes you think he was replaced? It’s Ivan. I was with him almost constantly. You think I wouldn’t recognize the boy I raised?”

“There was a morning when I woke up from a brutal drug-fueled frenzy and realized I’d killed my own son in a fit of senseless rage,” Temnikov said instead of answering. “I had no doubt about it. The rituals I performed confirmed it beyond question. I blamed myself deeply. So imagine my shock when I found out Ivan was alive.”

“That’s when I asked myself a few questions. If I really did kill my son, how is he still alive? And what did the late prince do to bring his grandson back? I think I’ve found the answer.”

Temnikov handed Theophane a stack of papers, which the Knight accepted without much enthusiasm.

“This is an excerpt from a compendium of forbidden rituals I found among the late Morozov’s belongings,” said Prince Temnikov, watching Theophane’s face closely. “You knew he had something like this.”

He went on without waiting.

“I found one ritual in particular that fits the situation.”

“And what am I supposed to do with that knowledge?” Theophane said coldly. “Do you think I care how the old man brought Ivan back? He did the impossible—and died because of you, by the way.”

“Doesn’t it matter to you that some foreign soul might’ve been placed inside Ivan’s body? That maybe, all this time, it hasn’t been Ivan—not the Morozov heir—but someone else entirely who’s been pulling your strings…”

“I want to see the original source,” said Theophane evenly. “As much as I’d love to tell you to go to hell and walk away—I need to know what you’re basing this on.”

“Alright, I’ll get it,” Temnikov said after a pause, rising to leave the room.

“This isn’t how I wanted this conversation to go. Not even close,” muttered Prince Yegor, walking down the corridor, feeling the storm of rage flaring behind him in Theophane’s soul. “But it’s a start.”

* * *

The next advanced demonology lesson turned out to be even more intense than the last one.

“How could it get any worse?” I mused, waiting for class to begin. “We already saw a live Dwarf Saw in action—and fought it, even. Some guys got hurt, and then I gave a few of them some emotional trauma showing how to gut one properly. What’s Grozov planning to do now? Bring in another demon for show-and-tell? That’s literally the only escalation left.”

As it turned out, I was dead wrong. The academy had plenty of surprises left.

We arrived as a group at one of the demonstration fields on the testing grounds. One end of the field had tall bleachers set up, and on the opposite end, several familiar cages were lined up—this time covered with fabric.

“Dwarf Saws! That many?!” Godimir gasped beside me. “I mean, I’ve heard that they hunt demons for research purposes, but I thought they’d moved on to stronger creatures by now. Haven’t Dwarf Saws been thoroughly studied?”

“I doubt it’s that hard to round up a few at the national level,” I said. “Put in a request for a live Dwarf Saw on the hunter exchange, offer a cage and a payout, and believe me—there’ll be guys willing to get the job done for a decent price.”

“That’s not the point,” Witowt cut in, having caught the end of our conversation. “There’s a section of land near the nearby science town that never fully turned into a Wasteland—but Dwarf Saws still spawn there on the regular.”

“So that’s why there’s so much going on in the outskirts of Antonovka,” I said. “The science town, a bunch of army units, Mage League testing ranges—and us, too. Are we sure nothing worse than a Dwarf Saw’s going to come out of there?”

“My father assured me we’re safe,” Witowt replied. “That science town’s been around for, what, two hundred years? The researchers there are working on theories about how demons appear in our world. They’re studying Wastelands and demonic movement tech. Actually, those sensors the Hunter League uses to track demons were invented right here.”

“These are valuable studies,” I agreed, then added, “Only I’ve never heard of any of this before—and I don’t think Godimir has, either. Are you sure you didn’t just blurt out something classified?”

“Well, you two aren’t going to go blabbing about it!” Witowt said, suddenly flustered.

“We might not,” Ogneyer said with a scowl, “but the way you just announced it like that, it probably wasn’t only us who heard. Next thing you know, you’ll be blaming us if there’s a leak. You really should’ve kept your mouth shut.”

“No, I trust you guys,” the heir protested. “Ivan and I didn’t always see eye to eye, sure, but I never thought he was the type to stoop to treachery. And that goes for you too, Godimir.”

“Well, thanks, I guess,” Ogneyer said with a crooked smile, but then one of the boys standing behind Witowt spoke up.

“After today’s lesson, that info’s not gonna stay secret for long. People in this country aren’t stupid—they’ll put two and two together.” He paused, then looked pointedly at Godimir. “And you, Ogneyer—watch your tongue. You’ve been letting it run a bit too wild lately. It’s not your place to lecture the heir to the Empire.”

“If I ever feel the need to ask for a flunky’s opinion,” Godimir said coldly, “I’ll probably shoot myself first. And since I’m not planning to do either, why don’t you shove your moralizing where the sun don’t shine? If Witowt has an issue with me, I’m sure he’ll say it to my face—so spare me the stink.”

“Chill,” I said to the fuming Godimir, whose mood swings lately had been heavily influenced by his body’s hormonal rewiring. “Looks like you’ll need your strength soon enough—and somewhere to spend it.”

Ogneyer didn’t respond. The kid who’d tried to give him a lecture met my gaze… and fell silent for some reason.

“So, what’s the status on our little project?” I asked Witowt, steering the conversation back. “Did you deliver the documents?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Everything was done by the book. And I think I even got preliminary approval. That’s actually why I was on my way to find you.”

“That’s promising,” I said, rubbing my hands together mentally. “So far, so good.”

“Let’s just hope Father didn’t act like a pompous noble in front of Theophane and gave him the reception he deserved, went through the documents and so on,” I thought, remembering the task I’d given the Knight. He hasn’t gotten back to me yet, but I doubted it was anything bad. Probably just delays of some sort. I didn’t think Temnikov’s had another meltdown.

Our crew picked a good spot near the center of the bleachers and started chatting about the latest advanced demonology lessons—until Grozov finally showed up on the field. The air went completely still, and every boy snapped to silent attention.

“Good morning, cadets,” said the Archmage in a quiet voice—but it rang out loud and clear, boosted by some unknown spell. “The topic of today’s session is combat with a demon.”

He swept his gaze across our stony faces, then continued with conviction.

“Yesterday, a few cadets demonstrated their skills—but only some of them succeeded. Today, the rest of you will get your chance to face a Dwarf Saw.”

That news hit like a thunderclap. The boys exchanged glances, whispering excitedly—though the thunder cracking overhead helped dampen their enthusiasm.

“I wasn’t finished,” the archmage said sharply, flashing a crooked smirk. “Yesterday, we saw what the end of a demon fight should look like.” He paused. Then, in a hard voice, he added, “With its death.”

Oh, now things just got real, I thought, watching the crowd explode in murmurs and gasps. And I understood why—it was one thing to injure a demon, and quite another to actually kill it. No matter how horrifying the thing was, for most normal kids—hell, for anyone really—it was never so easy to just end a life like that.

“Is this some kind of sick joke?” Witowt asked in disbelief, looking at me. “This is the first I’m hearing of it. And usually I get briefed on everything—even the demon thing yesterday.”

“Judging by how Grozov’s laying it out, this is the real deal,” I told him, while the archmage, pleased with the stir he’d caused, went on.

“Let me be clear: every cadet will go through this blood ritual. If you don’t manage to kill your demon the first time, you’ll keep fighting until you do. There’ll be no excuses, no skipping. Get it done.”

He scanned the bleachers, then locked eyes with me.

“Cadets Morozov and Ogneyer handled everything well yesterday. I’d like them to go first and show the others how it’s done.”

“Let’s go,” said Godimir, rising. “If I wait for my turn by the list, I’ll die of old age.”

I nodded in agreement.

“Let me take the first fight?” he asked, adjusting his gear and retying the laces on his boots.

He’d been trying hard lately to keep up with me in everything—and beat me when he could. Since I was the first to fight a Dwarf Saw yesterday and came out on top, it made sense for him to go now. Plus, a few helpful souls had pointed out that Ogneyer’s demon had already been half-dead after my round, so some thought his win wasn’t exactly clean. That clearly stuck with him.

“Deal. Go ahead,” I said, and Godimir stepped into the arena.

Grozov didn’t react to the switch, just gave a nod and left the field. A mage from the support team stepped forward and activated an enchanted cage on the testing ground.

“Ready?” the archmage asked.

Godimir gave a confident nod. The gong sounded.

The gray cloth covering the cage snapped upward. The door swung open, and a furious ravenous demon charged out—only to be immediately met with five fireballs to the chest and a blast of flame straight to the face. Reeling, bloodied and scorched, the creature tried to veer off to the side—but stumbled over a newly risen stone step, fell, and in the moment it scrambled to rise, Godimir hit it with a Wind Scythe.

The headless body collapsed.

“Well done, Ogneyer,” said the archmage, watching Godimir’s expressionless face as he stood over the corpse. “You may return to your seat.”

Godimir gave a mechanical nod and made his way back to the bleachers. Meanwhile, the support crew swapped out the cage, removed the corpse, and scattered fresh sand over the bloodstained ground.

I gave Godimir’s shoulder a firmer squeeze, hoping to lift his spirits a bit, just as Grozov called out:

“Morozov, your turn.”

I stepped into the same spot Ogneyer had just vacated and waited. After the usual readiness check, the gong sounded and the cage opened.

To be honest, I couldn’t be bothered to come up with anything fancy. I just conjured a few sharp spikes in front of the cage door and let the demon impale itself. The starving beast launched forward with such force it didn’t have time to react.

Not in the mood to listen to its agonized howling, I followed up with a Wind Scythe—just like the one I’d seen Godimir use—straight to the neck. Then I turned and headed back to the stands.

“Well done, Morozov!” said the archmage, offering me praise before turning to the cadets, amplifying his voice with another spell. “Before we move on to the official list—anyone else want to fight out of turn?”

“I do,” Witowt said unexpectedly, rising from his seat.

“Me too,” came Peskov’s voice.

“And me,” said Taranov, shooting me a glare. “Morozov isn’t the only one who can prove himself.”

“Very well,” Grozov said with a pleased smile, clearly enjoying the change in the vibe. “Witowt, take position. Peskov, be ready. The rest—follow the new queue.”

“You okay?” I asked Godimir, who was staring blankly ahead.

“It’s harder than I thought,” he mumbled without looking up.

I sent a chill breeze his way—just enough to make him shiver and shoot me an irritated glance.

“If it helps, know this: you did a hell of a lot better than I did. After my first kill, I emptied my guts. Also… if that thing had reached you, and we hadn’t been under the Archmage’s supervision, you’d have died a slow, agonizing death. First, the Dwarf Saw would have gone for your limbs to disable you, then, as you bled out, it would have knocked you out, dragged you to some infernal altar, and tortured you for days—siphoning your strength until madness finished the job.”

“You really know how to cheer someone up,” Godimir muttered, frowning. “But I’m not feeling guilty anymore. I’m glad I didn’t freeze.”

While we talked, Witowt had already taken down his demon without issue and returned to the stands, his greenish face locked in a stern expression.

Following the new tradition, I sent a blast of cold air his way.

“Thanks,” he muttered, a little more alert now.

“You did great—didn’t expect that from you,” I said sincerely, holding out a clenched fist.

He hesitated for a second, probably debating whether to take offense—but in the end, he bumped his fist against mine… and then Godimir’s.

And even though he tried to keep his face stoic, I could tell he was genuinely pleased.

It looked like my praise really meant something to him. That was a good sign, I thought with satisfaction. The kid was trainable. You just had to talk straight and give him a real goal—something that actually mattered. Sure, he was here learning like the rest of us, but now he also had a shot at reshaping an entire industry—one of the most important in the Empire. That was real. And that was ambitious. And, of course, it helped that I had some clout around here. A mysterious back story, elite martial skills, solid magic, victories against assassin-league fighters, an Imperial tournament under my belt, business ventures that actually worked—and, apart from everything else, I knew how to gut demons without flinching. That counted for a lot. Especially when the praise came not from lackeys, but from noble-born cadets with nothing to gain by buttering him up. That was the kind of respect that landed.

The day stretched on. One by one, the cadets marched onto the field to face their demons. Not everyone succeeded. Many ended up recovering in the med tents, gulping down potions before heading out again for round two…

Those who did manage to kill their demons had to butcher them, which turned out to be a test of their mettle all by itself. Still, I had to admit—if any of these guys met a real Dwarf Saw in the wild, they wouldn’t flinch. It was hard to be scared of something you’d already killed… and gutted.

“Sounds like we’ve cleaned out the entire demon stockpile from the research center,” I said, helping my squadmates with their dissection.

“And the center doesn’t even seem bothered. They just keep sending more,” said Godimir, working on his demon. Then, grimacing, he added, “Ugh, gross. I’m this close to puking. The thing is still warm. Did they put it in stasis or something?”

“In that case, you won’t earn a passing mark and you’ll have to repeat the procedure,” said Deadwood, standing nearby and checking our work.

“That’s not fair,” Ogneyer objected. “Just because I feel sick doesn’t mean I can’t get the ingredients out.”

“Sergeant,” Peskov cut in, changing the subject, “any idea how long this bloodbath is going to last? I’ve already killed three of these things, and I’m getting real tired of all the gore.”

“To be honest,” said the sergeant—surprisingly candid for once—“this is the last day. No more live demons. The academy head said the goals of the advanced course have been met.”

“This had goals?” Kowalski asked darkly. “Well, I guess I won’t piss myself next time I see a demon…”

“That’s only because you haven’t seen a tail-bearing Nocer yet,” I pointed out. “Or a full-battle-mode Crossweaver.”

“Crossweaver?” the sergeant asked, intrigued. “You’ve seen one?”

“Oh-ho-ho, have I just,” I said with a grin.

Under the cadets’ curious gazes, I launched into a story about my encounter with the spider demon and how it chased me through the treetops.

“The scariest part,” I finished, “was realizing there could be more than one. That’s why they call it a ‘brood mother,’ after all.”

Only then did I notice that I’d been completely surrounded by cadets.

What surprised me most was that not a single one called bullshit. Not one.

Instead, their eyes were full of respect—real, solid respect. They believed me. They listened. And at that moment, I realized why. It was because, over the course of this unusually gory week, they’d all grown older. Grown up. And none of them would ever be the same again.

Chapter 19

I JOLTED AWAKE SO ABRUPTLY, I didn’t even realize I was already on my feet.

“Four thirty in the morning,” I thought, glancing at the clock and listening.

Silence.

Weird. No alarms, but I jumped up like I’d been stung. What’s going on?

I checked in with my body. That’s when I felt it—an inferno of anxiety swelling in my chest. Something was wrong. Seriously wrong. With every heartbeat, the sense of danger grew sharper, pounding like a war drum in my bones.

I rushed to the window and activated Wolf Eyes, pumping a bit more energy than usual into the technique. The world sharpened instantly—I could see as clearly as in daylight and would’ve easily spotted anyone trying to sneak around under an invisibility charm.

But… nothing. Not a flicker of movement. Not a trace of trouble.

Still, the feeling didn’t go away. It got worse.

I sprinted to the nightstand, yanked on my gear, and bolted into the corridor.

What’s wrong?! What the hell is going on?! I thought frantically. Why did I wake up like this, right in the middle of dead-sleep o’clock? Even that coincidence feels off.

“Nocer guts and ashes!” I swore in my head.

And then, like a swarm of molten fire ants racing down my spine, the realization hit.

Crap. No way. No way. I’d gotten too soft.

With that, I poured as much “chill” into my voice as I could and shouted loud enough to wake the gods.

“Cadets, alarm! Uniform type four! Formation at the armory! Demon attack! This is not a drill! I repeat—demon attack!”

I threw open the front door, bolted outside, and, forcing more magic into my lungs, roared with everything I had:

“ACADEMY, ALERT! DEMON ATTACK! GEAR UP! THIS IS NOT A DRILL! GET UP, DAMN IT!”

That last bit? Purely for emphasis. Needed to make it sound like maybe—just maybe—all hell really was breaking loose.

My voice, empowered by magic, rang out across the academy grounds and even reached the neighbors. Definitely not your average wake-up call.

“MOROZOV!” came the furious snarl of Sergeant Beeston, who was on duty tonight. “What the hell are you doing, you lunatic?!”

And that’s when the sound of gunfire cut through the night—and from all directions, shots lit up the dark.

Two tail-whipping Nocers materialized right in front of us in a puff of blood-red smoke, each swinging a massive battle axe.

Relief slammed into me so hard I almost laughed. Thank the abyss—I didn’t just panic-scream the whole campus awake for nothing.

“Holy mother of—!” Beast cursed, diving to the side as an axe flew past his head. He sprang back toward the now unarmed demon and, wrapping some unfamiliar technique around his arm, casually ripped out its throat.

Damn. I needed to learn that, I thought.

I sprang into motion, using the spell combo Father had drilled into me over break. First, I flash-froze the demon’s feet to the ground. Then, I speared it from below with an icy spike, impaling it clean through.

I turned to Beast and barked,

“Get the cadets up, armed, and positioned for proper defense. Until then, assign Peskov, Ogneyer, and Kowalski to guard duty for me.”

Too bad there was only one sergeant on overnight duty these days, I thought bitterly, not like during basic when we had the full squad.

I saw Beeston hesitate.

“MOVE IT, SERGEANT!” I roared. “They’ll listen to you! They won’t listen to me! You’re the commander! They need you now! GO!”

He snapped out of his reverie and sprinted off, shouting orders like a war god, while I scanned the perimeter. Lights were already on in the first and second platoons’ dorms.

Good. Maybe I had just bought us a few crucial minutes… enough for the cadets to gear up and not get slaughtered like livestock.

“Activate night vision,” I told the boys around me. “Form a perimeter around the dorms. Eyes up—some of them fly. If there are too many, pull back and call for help. Got it?”

They nodded without saying a word, already splitting off and slipping into the dark like pros.

As for me—I charged straight at a larger pack of demons barring my way.

I slammed them with a tidal wave and froze it mid-surge, trapping the creatures inside. Then, I shaped the frozen mass into a massive snowball—with the writhing demons still embedded in it—and hurled it at another group charging Kowalski’s position.

I arrived just in time.

Kowalski took a brutal hit from a massive Anthro and was flung into a building wall. He dropped like a stone, unconscious.

Peskov and Ogneyer were still on their feet, barely, but the demons just kept coming.

Thankfully, the rest of our platoon had armed up fast. A barrage of gunfire from the second-story windows tore through the next wave of attackers.

Then something unexpected happened.

The cadets came out of cover and surrounded the four of us, dragging us into their formation. One handed out fresh weapons and gear. Stone-faced Taranov held out my twin sabers—the ones I’d stupidly left behind when I bolted out of bed.

A few others were already tending to the dazed Kowalski.

“He’s alive,” someone said. I exhaled in relief.

“Give him a decent potion and he’ll be okay.”

“Wouldn’t we be better off staying behind the walls?” I asked Beast, who’d reappeared beside me.

“Even better,” he said, “would be to concentrate the forces of all three platoons in one spot. There are too many windows in one dorm to hold with a single squad—but with three? That’ll do. We’re heading to First Platoon’s quarters. We’re going to protect the heir to the Empire.”

The boys, serious and visibly on edge, nodded in unison and gripped their rifles tighter as the sergeant began barking orders.

“First squad, follow them—take the left flank and front. Third squad, right flank and rear. Second squad, air support. Morozov, you’re with me in the center. Scan for high-priority targets, coordinate the squad fire. Move!”

It was barely two hundred feet to the next building, but as we advanced, gunning down every demon that appeared nearby, I noticed their numbers were growing with alarming speed.

If we were still able to fire, it means the demons haven’t blocked our ballistics with suppression rituals yet, I thought grimly. Which, unfortunately, didn’t mean they wouldn’t do it any second now.

“Stick to firearms as much as possible!” I called out when someone blasted a low-tier Dwarf Saw with a full-force spell. “We may lose access to guns soon—once that happens, all we’ll have left is magic and spirit energy.”

“Five Nocers incoming—front!” Beast barked. “First squad, light ’em up!”

As the cadets unleashed a storm of bullets with perfect simultaneity, I scanned the field for major threats, still stewing over the bigger picture.

What the hell was going on?! How did a Wasteland form just a few dozen miles from Marigrad? Who was responsible?! How big was it? Was it even worth trying to escape—or should we wait for reinforcements? Damn. Too many questions, and not a single answer.

The gunfire, explosions, and general chaos were loudest around the Special Forces detachment. That, at least, was a good sign—it meant the heaviest fighting was happening there, giving us precious time to reach First Platoon’s barracks without being overwhelmed.

“Two Night Hunters in the sky—plus a pair of flying Dwarf Saws!” I shouted, launching ten sharpened ice spikes. “Focus fire on the airborne ones first!”

“What the hell is that?!” someone screamed, and I turned just in time to see a huge armored Betlor beetling toward us.

“That one’s mine!” I shouted before the cadets could waste more ammo. I locked the demon in place with an Ice Hand that burst from the ground, then—before it could break free—imagined a dozen thick Ice Stakes erupting from the palm and skewering the monster.

I didn’t even have time to admire the handiwork before someone shrieked:

“Spiders! Incoming!”

“Fire!” I shouted without turning, catching a glimpse of Beast rushing off to handle another Betlor like I just had.

The next moment, we were sprinting up the stairs into First Platoon’s barracks while the cadets behind us held back a wave of Crossweavers.

“Morozov!” Beeston grabbed me by the arm and pulled me through the crowd. “Second Platoon hasn’t arrived yet! We’ve gotta help before they’re wiped out!”

I dropped my gear and weapons on the floor—kept only my saber and staff—and surged forward, body charged with Shiki-Cho, right behind the sergeant.

Second Platoon was in bad shape. For some reason, they were fighting only with magic and had let the demons get right up to the building.

Beeston led off a few Naga and a couple of Anthros, leaving me to deal with the numerous smaller fry.

Saber whirling like a propeller, I carved my way through the enemy with deadly efficiency, just in time to see two Anthros climbing through a second-story window.

“Everyone outside!” I shouted, lacing my voice with freezing command. “Group up! We’re heading to First Platoon’s barracks! They’ve already got defenses in place! MOVE! The demons are here!”

I squeezed past the unarmed cadets clogging the stairwell and charged up—only for the stench of charred flesh to hit me like a punch in the face.

Shit! I’m too late! I thought, fury bubbling up as I tore through the hallway and sliced down the Anthros who were about to finish off the last four defenders.

“DOWNSTAIRS, NOW!” I barked, shoving the surviving cadets ahead and trying not to look at the three charred bodies on the floor.

“Friendly!” I shouted as I emerged from the building. Beast was still engaged with the Naga, so I started issuing commands.

“First squad—front and right flank! Second—left flank and rear! Third squad, eyes on the sky! We’re punching through to First Platoon’s position! Watch for orders! MOVE!”

Now that they had clear instructions, the cadets surged forward with renewed focus, blasting spells in every direction.

Was it just me, or were there WAY more demons now?

“Where’s your commanding officer?!” I shouted, shielding the squad with an Ice Wall just in time to block five unknown spells.

“Dallying with the cook!” someone yelled—Glinov, I realized, somehow right beside me, expertly sniping a Nocer mid-lunge.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me!” I thought. That bastard went off to fool around while his cadets were dying without weapons?!

First Platoon’s building greeted us with rapid gunfire and a sizeable demon formation charging us head-on, completely unfazed by losses.

“Ready your best spells!” I bellowed, lacing the command with more magical chill. “All units—target the large group on the right flank! FIRE!”

“This must look incredible,” I thought as a tidal wave of elemental constructs streaked through the air and utterly shredded the enemy unit.

The remaining demons were intercepted by Captain Zaremba—First Platoon’s commander—thankfully still on duty tonight.

“I’m going after Beast!” I told Glinov and, before anyone could stop me, dashed toward the besieged sergeant.

I tore through a pack of incoming demons using a new brutal combo spell that left scorched corpses in my wake, just in time to help the severely wounded Beeston.

Two of the surviving Naga saw the tide turning and bolted immediately.

“Fall back!” I shouted, grabbing Beast before he could give chase. “No time for that now!”

With a guttural snarl, he followed, limping beside me.

Fighting off a couple straggler beasts, I hauled the barely conscious sergeant back toward the building.

“That was insane,” Godimir said, suddenly at my side, handing me a healing potion from his stash. He also began applying salve to the bleeding wounds on my arms and legs.

Wait—when the hell did I get hit? I thought, baffled. Must have been the chaos. That was the battle haze for you.

Watching the boys stabilize Beast with potions, I finally exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

“Whew! Made it! Got him out! Thank the Savior we didn’t lose him—because that would’ve been bad. Really bad.”

“This is a damn slaughter,” someone muttered beside me, while the cadets on perimeter duty continued firing—conserving every last bullet as demons just kept coming. “How many of them are there? Three hundred? Four? Five? And how many more are on the way? Can we even hold out against this kind of force?”

Silently agreeing with the cadet’s dread, I turned to Godimir.

“How’s the defense? Did we get it up in time?”

“See for yourself,” he nodded toward the perimeter. “Zaremba sealed up every second-floor window and most of the first. He split the rest among a few coordinated squads and assigned squad leads, so for now, we’re feeling relatively safe.”

“Speaking of,” someone from First Platoon piped up, “where the hell is Archmage Grozov? Why haven’t we seen his lightning yet? That would really come in handy right about now!”

“He’s not here because today’s academy officer on duty is the Knight—Krom,” answered Beast, who was sitting against the wall. “And he’s not slacking. When Morozov and I were heading for cover, I saw him taking on a cluster of seriously nasty demons.”

Maybe that was why there were barely any demons coming from the command post, I thought.

“I hope he holds out,” Godimir muttered darkly. “Dwarf Saws and damnation! What if one of those monsters fighting Krom decides to head here? We couldn’t stop it. Not a chance.”

“That’s why you have a platoon commander,” came the voice of Zaremba, who’d somehow snuck up without a sound.

“And a squad sergeant,” added Beeston, getting to his feet. “I’m good to go.”

“Let’s just hope that’s enough,” Peskov grumbled.

Then one of the perimeter cadets called out, “They’re backing off. The demons. They attack, then pull away again.”

“They’re preparing for a full assault,” said the captain as he stepped forward. After a short pause, he summoned another layer of stone barricade with his family magic. “And they might be stalling until the Waskors finish a ritual to suppress firearms.”

“In that case, they’re wasting their time,” one cadet muttered. “We’ve barely got any ammo left. We’ve used up most of it already.”

Right then, at one of the small firing slits near the main entrance—left open on purpose by Zaremba—a face appeared.

“I almost shot you, idiot!” a cadet yelled.

The stranger flinched and ducked.

A chill rolled down my spine as I caught a glimpse of goat horns on his head.

The cadet pulled the trigger, but the humanoid demon was already gone.

“Shields!” Beeston barked—and a section of the captain’s stone defense exploded, showering us with rubble.

An unfamiliar demon stepped through the smoke.

He looked almost human—almost. From the waist up, he might have passed for a man: horns, long goatee, muscular chest covered in swirling tattoos. From the waist down, though, he had goat legs… and a long tail ending in a barbed arrowhead.

Unfazed by the bullets still flying his way, the Satyr—as I mentally dubbed him—advanced with a smile, until Zaremba forced him out of the perimeter with some unknown spell.

“What the hell’s going on?!” Witowt yelled, running in from somewhere deeper in the building.

“It’s bad,” Beast said grimly as he peeked outside and saw the Satyr pressuring the captain. Then he turned to me. “Morozov, you’re in charge. You’re their last shot at staying alive.”

He ran out to help the captain—just as I was about to do myself—but the enemy forces had gotten the signal.

The final assault had begun.

Once the last of our ammo was spent, the cadets drew their staves and launched magical barrages. The demons retaliated with spells of their own, but our dormitories—especially First Platoon’s—were reinforced well enough to avoid collapse.

Doing everything I could to keep them at bay, I cycled my two-spell combo nonstop, raising walls of ice spikes that sliced through charging demons by the dozen.

I moved window to window, reinforcing whichever squad was getting hit the hardest. But my strength was draining fast. The demons were closing in.

Captain and sergeant were still locked in combat with the Satyr, whose fighting skills were terrifying.

The logic was clear—they were keeping the biggest threat occupied so he couldn’t decimate our ranks. It was working. Barely. But what the hell were we supposed to do about the rest of them?

“Don’t waste energy!” I shouted as some cadets started hurling wild spells over the demons’ heads in sheer panic.

Still, to give credit where it was due, our training had paid off. The boys were coordinated and efficient, but even that wasn’t enough. The demons kept advancing. Slowly. Relentlessly.

We poured every last scrap of our spiritual and magical energy into the defense and finally—finally—broke through. Most of the attackers were down.

What now?! I thought, sucking in air, heart pounding.

“I-I-Ivan…” Godimir choked out behind me.

I ran toward the front and peered past the barricade, over the demon corpses littering the field.

The Satyr was still there—smiling.

Captain Zaremba’s severed head was skewered on the end of his tail.

You bastard!

My mind was already racing—and there was nothing I could do.

My energy reserves were gone. My body throbbed with wounds and strain. The Satyr stood grinning, just waiting for his next opponent. And as if that wasn’t enough—new demon silhouettes were starting to appear in the distance, sprinting toward us.

“Dwarf Saws… I’m spent,” Witowt groaned. “Ivan, what do we do?”

I looked around.

Every cadet had their eyes on me.

Hopeful. Exhausted. Desperate.

Like they actually thought I could save them.

“Well, looks like I don’t have a choice,” I thought, reaching for the chain around my neck. “After this, I’ll probably die. But maybe I’ll be able to save someone. Nur-Kulsaan pollen wasn’t considered an extremely dangerous substance for nothing—it gave you a massive surge of energy, which can easily kill a low-ranking fighter. But before that, it’ll serve as a final reserve. After I use it, I’ll die—but better to go down fighting than surrendering to fate. I’ve had a few extra good years anyway.”

“Goodbye, everyone,” I said, stepping out of the barracks. “Tell the others to move away from the windows. I’ll try to cover you.”

Without listening to any objections, I bit open the small vial of pollen and inhaled it through my nose.

Nothing happened for a moment—then I felt my spiritual and magical reserves begin to fill at an incredible rate.

“Spare me if you can,” I said to the ice core inside my inner world, then channeled a massive surge of spirit energy through my body and rushed around the building, thickening the walls with three-foot-deep layers of ice.

Originally, I’d planned to cover only the windows—but my rapidly replenishing mana reserves let me create a proper ice barrier.

Despite the massive amount of mana I was burning, the reserve kept growing at a terrifying pace. So once I’d finished sealing the building, I redirected my strength at the demons, skewering them with ice spikes and launching a huge number of icicles in rapid bursts.

Enraged by my stunt with the defenses, the Satyr rushed at me, and we engaged in close combat. Using his tail as a fifth limb, he wrapped it around my arm—but before he could celebrate, I hit him with Cold Mist. Then I tried to drive a mana-charged Screw spell into his eye, but missed. The Satyr broke free.

Taking advantage of his retreat, I launched a barrage of energy-saturated spells at the swarm of lesser demons—but despite that, my reserves kept growing, and the pressure started to cause me physical pain.

Trying to release as much energy as possible, I didn’t realize my eyes were now glowing ghostly blue and that I was standing in the center of a massive snowflake-like sigil pulsing with bluish energy in time with my heartbeat. Overhead, a vortex of enormous ice blades began to form.

Dull blows on my will shield signaled the Satyr’s return—with backup. I was now facing three extremely dangerous opponents.

Epilogue

“A NOCER’S AXE up my rear end… What the hell happened here?” muttered the senior investigator from the Imperial Security Department, going pale as he surveyed the wreckage on the grounds of the Imperial Cadet Academy.

A composite unit of Imperial special forces had already passed through, clearing out the last of the surviving demons—but they clearly couldn’t have caused this level of destruction.

All around stood ruined buildings, ancient trees lay toppled, and strange ice blades were scattered here and there.

He’d already heard that Morozov had cut down a massive number of demons, creating a true frozen bloodbath—but hearing it was one thing, seeing it was another entirely.

The investigator’s attention was caught, in particular, by the massive ice blocks with demons frozen inside them, and dozens of corpses impaled on “ice spikes.”

“Horrific way to die,” he thought, shuddering. Then he noticed a two-story building completely coated in a thick layer of ice glinting in the sun. “The rumors about Morozov’s strength weren’t exaggerated.”

“Mr. Wolski,” came the voice of his assistant, who had arrived an hour earlier.

“What did you find out, Arthur?” he asked immediately.

“Specialists from the research center are still on site, but one thing is clear—the Wasteland expansion happened due to ten ‘soul stones’ having been set up in a specific configuration.”

“Where could they have gotten that many?” the investigator asked in surprise.

“I passed the info to Central Analysis. They promised to send a report within the hour.”

“Make sure I see that document,” said the senior investigator. “Go on.”

“Well, near each of the ‘soul stones’ they found Waskor remains… and tracks from a group of people.”

“Were the tracks the same in all locations?” Wolski asked immediately.

“All different,” confirmed his assistant.

“Where could they have gotten so many well-trained teams?” the man said, thinking aloud.

“Kognisians? Tanzinians?” the assistant guessed. “They’ve moved their troops to the border for a reason.”

“Artie, you seem like a smart man,” the investigator sighed. “Do you really think their intelligence service could pull something like this off? Not only smuggling Waskors and fighters halfway across the Empire, but coordinating a sabotage op like this under our own security’s nose? Even the recon alone? No. This was someone local. One of ours. And those people—we need to find them.”

His eyes swept the wreckage and landed on the corpse of a humanoid demon with long straight horns—one broken off and jammed into its own eye.

“All right,” the investigator said with a heavy sigh. “Get to work. I’m going to take a look around.”

Approaching the ice-covered building, he found a carved-out entrance and, nearby, rows of bodies covered with sheets.

“Holy Savior…” he thought, silently counting the children’s corpses.

A short distance away, a dozen surviving cadets sat on blankets, urgently trying to explain something to a man holding a white sheet.

Curious, the investigator stepped closer—and to his surprise, saw that the cadets had surrounded a boy lying flat on his back. He was surprised to recognize him as none other than Witowt the Second—the heir to the throne.

Why the hell is Witowt still here after all this?! Wolski thought irritably.

He glanced at the boy on the ground and recognized him too.

Morozov.

The boy’s pale face and body were veined with a web of glowing blue vessels—on white skin, it looked downright unnatural.

“He flinched!” Witowt shouted at the man. “I saw it! Get a healer over here, now!”

“That’s just a death twitch,” the man replied wearily, wiping his sweaty face with a sleeve. “The healers are treating those who still have a chance. I’m sorry, but your friend has no pulse. He’s gone.”

“I have some skill in healing magic,” Wolski said—surprising even himself. “If you’ll allow it, I’ll examine your friend.”

“Praise the Savior,” the man exhaled in relief—probably not eager to argue with the imperial heir.

“Yes, check him,” Witowt ordered coolly, his eyes locked on the investigator.

The boys stepped back immediately. Wolski knelt beside Morozov and took the boy’s icy hand, searching for a pulse.

He’s gone. No living person is this cold, he thought at once. Still, he cast a diagnostic spell to check the heart.

It should be beating. Something.

Nothing, he thought with a sigh. What were you hoping for? No one that looks like this can still be alive.

He was about to cancel the spell—when he heard a clear, steady heartbeat.

Stunned, the investigator looked up at the surrounding cadets.

“He’s alive,” he said in disbelief.

The next books of the series!

Head of the Bloodline (Living Ice Book 5)

A True Prince (Living Ice Book 6)

Master of Circumstance (Living Ice Book 7)

End of Book Four

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About the Author

In 2013, Dmitry Sheleg decided to radically change his life by trying to become a writer. And already in the fall of 2014, his first novel Nelud (Not of This World) was released by one of the country’s leading sci fi & fantasy publishing houses, Alpha Kniga. The resulting 7-book series received an avalanche of positive reviews from both readers and literary critics.

In 2019, Dmitry started a new novel: The Heir of an Ancient Bloodline, which later became the first book in his new series Living Ice. It was met with a lot of praise and received bestselling rankings in online book stores. Inspired by the first book’s success, Dmitry wrote eight more titles, completing the Living Ice series in 2023.

Currently the author lives and works in Minsk, Belarus. He’s married and is busy raising a wonderful daughter.

According to his readers, Dmitry excels in writing exciting stories which grab you from the very first pages. His works are characterized by fresh and original storylines, heroic characters, masterful worldbuilding and excellent combat scenes.