Solo Strategy

Peeling myself off the wall, I stood up and quietly left the niche, not wanting to disturb the priest's communion with his Lady. My back ached, but not enough to waste a pain-relieving alchemical potion. I stretched in different directions and realized there were no serious injuries, at most a few bruises that would heal in a couple of hours.

I had to admit, such pressure from Seguna's Echo caught me off guard. Even in the Last Cycle, nothing like this had happened. It wasn't a hint or a request but a clear command, as if I had once sworn to serve the Night Mistress. Likely, it was because the Echo was not a god but the world's memory of divinity. I wasn't even sure if Echos could be considered fully sentient beings. Morpheus once said they reminded him of advanced earthly neural networks, and now I was inclined to agree. The way Seguna's Echo acted was too straightforward, crude. I'd even say—excessive. After all, I could have been reasoned with, but there was no attempt at dialogue. And yet, if the biographies of the Night Sister were to be believed, she was renowned for her intrigues and diplomacy, even among other deities. Apparently, the Echo had largely lost these subtleties inherent to the original.

Helping once was all it took for Seguna's Echo to assume my further assistance was a given, elevating it to the level of my duty. And when I refused—hoping to bargain for a better reward—instead of outplaying me in a war of words and meanings, as I'm sure the true Seguna would have, the Echo simply tried to hammer a divine command into my head.

No, I had long known that the Echo was not the deity itself, but only now did I get final confirmation of this knowledge. An unexpected insight struck me like a bolt of lightning, and I quietly whispered:

"Visualization."

Ah, lucky me—despite its clear displeasure, Seguna's Echo did not strip me of my Affinity with Shadow. It would have been a shame to lose such a significant boon due to my stubbornness.

What had come over me then? Initially, it was clear—I wanted to demonstrate my independence in hopes of negotiating a more substantial reward. But later, when it became evident that my stubbornness would lead to no good, why did I still continue to resist the Echo's will?

The answer, essentially, was right on the surface. I was simply tired of obeying just anyone. The questers with their murky goals were more than enough for me, and now this Echo of a divine entity had decided I didn't need free will.

But it wasn't just about anger and emotions. Even after receiving this childish toy—"Shadow Theater"—instead of a real reward, I still believed I had done the right thing. If I had agreed immediately, Seguna's Echo would have surely branded me as one of its loyal servants. And as is well known, a different sort of responsibility is demanded from servants. Besides, free will, even if illusory, meant too much to me. I remembered well how I once had sacrificed it—on the scaffold of my revenge against the questers. I lost my sense of self, broke from within, ceased to be a complete person, and turned into a tool. Effective but empty. And in this Cycle, I wasn't going to make that mistake again.

The head of the Thieves' Guild of Feyst lingered. I had time to turn over what had happened by the altar several times and even convinced myself that I had acted in the only right way, yet the Man of a Thousand Faces still hadn't left the niche.

Sitting directly on the cold stone floor, I closed my eyes and activated the Shadow Player skill. Apparently, due to the proximity of the true altar of the Night Sister, the shadows obeyed exceptionally well, and my Shadow Sense didn't cause the usual dizziness. Previously, I had never managed to keep this skill active for more than a few dozen seconds, but this time, I lasted almost three minutes. During this time, the shadows, following my will, explored the entire cave, except, of course, the altar niche.

I hoped to find something interesting—after all, this cave had been sealed off from the outside world for almost two thousand years. But all I managed to discover were a dozen skeletons scattered across the stone floor. Judging by the remnants of clothing preserved on the bones and the complete absence of ornaments, these were once ordinary pearl divers. Apparently, none of them made it past the First Wall, and they had no Earth magic at all. So, when the earthquake blocked the exit, it became simply impossible for them to get out.

The characteristic chips on the skeletons' ribs indicated that, having realized the hopelessness of their situation, they had taken their own lives. The last one, having done everything necessary, slit his own throat. Not with a knife, but with a simple stone shard, sharpened by hand. Many centuries ago, a tragedy occurred in this cave. Pearl divers, performing a real feat by stealing the true altar right from under the noses of Antares' priests, hid it—and instead of a reward, met their death. Fate was a heartless bitch. Again and again, I became convinced of the truth of that statement.

The appearance of the priest of Seguna I noticed only when he was right in front of me, halting two steps away. Flickers from the sphere of fire in his hand danced fiercely in his eyes, giving his face an inhuman, eerie expression.

A chill of sticky, instinctive fear ran down my spine. I had no idea what order he had received from his Mistress. What if the Echo had decided to use him to finish off such a disobedient worm?

"Raven Alexandrite," he said in a deep, heavy voice that chilled me to the bone. "Raven the Insolent. The Lady of Twilight... asked me to help you."

Unexpected. Very.

I should have been glad, but I barely held back a grimace—he was asked, while I was ordered. Unfair. Though, on reflection... who was I to the Echo? Just an Opal rank wanderer. And he—a priest. Mithril. In this comparison, my worth indeed wasn't impressive.

"I won't refuse help," I smiled as warmly as possible. "How are we going to take the altar?"

"The Lady's altar will stay here," the Man of a Thousand Faces shook his head, currently resembling an ordinary shopkeeper.

Here? Strange. But not my concern.

"The Night Sister asked to bring to the altar one worthy of becoming a true priest," I said with feigned concern.

"Don't worry yourself about that," the head of the Thieves' Guild waved off. "This task I'll carry out myself."

A satisfied and slightly sardonic smile flickered across his face as if he had already planned some multi-layer scheme.

"Less work is not more work," I laughed in response to his words.

"You are..." he seemed to search for the right word, "strange."

"So I've been told," I nodded indifferently, trying to look as independent as possible.

"Go to the water, I'll be in a while," ordered the priest of the Night Sister.

I shrugged and, without arguing, headed towards the exit. I had no desire to spy on what this man was up to. I had only one life, and risking it for the sake of trivial, even petty curiosity—too high a price.

Returning to the first cave, I sat on a stone at the water's edge and dipped my feet into the cool, briny surface. Overhead, the fiery sphere still glowed, casting flickering shadows on the walls. They danced, twisted, and crept over the moss and uneven ledges, turning the modest chamber into something gloomy, almost frightening. It seemed even the walls breathed in rhythm with the flickers above: muffled, heavy, with a hint of ancient dampness.

Trying to distract myself, I activated the Shadow Player again, still hoping to find something worthwhile. Alas, no artifacts were found. But there was something else: under the boulder, pressed by this massive rock, lay a neat pile of Star Pearls. Exactly a dozen—black with specks of shimmering silver, all perfectly uniform, about the size of a thumbnail. They glistened as if they had just rolled out of a shell, not spent two millennia in darkness.

In Deytran, a single one could fetch at least forty gold. Of course, this wasn't some ancient relic, but it wasn't an empty sack either. And definitely better than nothing.

When the Man of a Thousand Faces finally appeared, I was still sitting on the stone, rolling the pearls in my palm. They pleasantly cooled my skin.

"I make no claim," he said curtly, catching my gaze.

His face remained stony, but I understood: he knew about the pearls. And he had consciously left them for me. Well, of course. To him, they were dust. Less than dust. But to me—a minor, yet real, stroke of luck.

"We're heading back?" he asked—not ordering, just in an offhand way.

And he casually tossed me an empty pouch, which he had been hiding somewhere like a magician. Pouring the pearls inside, I nodded.

"If the altar stays here, we're heading back."

Receiving his affirmative nod, I took a deep breath, clamped the pouch between my teeth, and, without hesitation, slipped under the water. It met me with coolness, a muffled sound, and a viscous dark blue semi-darkness. The cave was letting me out reluctantly.

As promised by the head of the Thieves' Guild, the boat was right where we had left it. It even seemed to me that, despite the wind and currents, it hadn't moved an inch. Grabbing the side, I easily pulled myself up, swung my body over the edge like a feather, and jumped in. Without taking off my clothes, I squeezed out my briefs and then—with a little household air magic—dried myself off completely. After that, I got dressed, not forgetting to throw the heavy, still dirty cloak over my shoulders.

As for the priest of Seguna, he, as before, took his place at the stern. And, with the same thoughtful look, like a detached philosopher, was watching the steady motion of the waves.

Taking the oars, I turned our little boat around and steered it back towards the fishing port. Almost the entire way back, the Man of a Thousand Faces didn't utter a word. And only when we were about three hundred meters from the pier did he speak:

"What's next?" The look he gave me had no trace of the previous contempt or the concealed, lazy irony.

"I'll return to the inn and rest. We'll meet again an hour before sunset."

"Should I bring a shovel and pickaxe too?"

His voice was dry, without inflection. But the question itself spoke volumes: nothing in this city escaped his attention.

"Go ahead," I shrugged. "It won't hurt."

Was he really going to help this time, and not just stand by as a distant observer, as he had in the cave? Oh, right... It was the Echo of the Lady herself who asked him. So, yes. He would.

We docked calmly, not drawing the slightest interest from passersby, fishermen, or even bustling merchants. Most likely, the head of the Thieves' Guild used some magic to keep prying eyes away from us. The boat we simply left at the pier, securing it with a mooring rope. At my questioning look, my companion just waved his hand—nothing to worry about.

Then, the priest of the Night Mistress escorted me to the inn and disappeared without a word. Some might have taken this as an expression of irritation or arrogant indifference, but I didn't see it that way. It was more like he was in a state beyond words. For him, finding a true altar lost centuries ago was not just a stroke of luck or a fulfilled duty. It was an Event. A shock. A personal revelation. As if someone on Earth had actually found the nails used to crucify Christ. And now he was silent not out of disdain. It was because he was genuinely struggling to grasp what had happened.

Upon reaching my room, the first thing I did was check my belongings. At first glance, everything seemed in place. However, the absence of a small, inconspicuous hair I had carefully placed on the backpack before leaving made it clear: someone had thoroughly rummaged through my things. And I even knew on whose orders this search was conducted. But I wasn't upset—I would have done the same in the head of the Thieves' Guild's place. Making sure nothing was missing, I collapsed onto the bed, having undressed down to my underwear.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

I wondered if the one who had rummaged through my backpack recognized in the bracelet lying at the bottom a relic of Shadow. Considering that this "someone" managed to enter my room without disturbing even the praised protection set by a mage of the Heroic Coil, they probably did—they should have had the qualification to recognize the Night Huntress Bracelet.

Would the priest of Seguna bring up the bracelet in the evening? Or choose to remain silent? Interesting. If I played this right, I could actually get something useful out of it.

No, I had no illusions about outplaying a master like the Man of a Thousand Faces. But if he brought up the subject first—that would be an opportunity. An opportunity to take advantage of. And if he stayed silent… Well, then I'd best not mention it either.

Taking a deep breath, I stretched. My choice of the most audacious plan was paying off so far. Yes, there had been difficulties with the underwater cave, but they would have arisen even without the involvement of the head of the Thieves' Guild. Otherwise, everything went surprisingly smoothly. If only I had been a bit more accommodating and not argued with the Echo of the Night Mistress... But regretting what was done is pointless.

What mattered most was that the Man of a Thousand Faces not only knew about me but also wasn't surprised to see my Affinity with Shadow. From that point on, the rest was just a matter of execution. My bet that the priest of Seguna wouldn't trust anyone else to accompany me in the search for the true altar was correct. And how could it have been otherwise? Matters of such importance weren't entrusted even to the most loyal and proven.

So, the first part of the plan could be considered a complete success. The second part was going to be trickier. But the fact that Seguna had asked her priest to assist me inspired cautious optimism. At least, I hoped there would be no surprises. I really hoped so. Although—it was precisely hope, nothing more. Because when dealing with a personality of such level, scale, and influence as the Man of a Thousand Faces, certainty was impossible. His words, "The Lady asked me to help you," could very well have been a lie. This possibility was worth keeping in mind as well.

About an hour before sunset, when I was already fully prepared to leave, there was a quiet knock on my room's door. Opening it, I wasn't surprised at all: instead of the maid, the priest of the Night Sister himself stood on the threshold.

The fact that Kalyama or the innkeeper himself moonlighted for the Thieves' Guild was no surprise. And no, I didn't blame them for it—without such "cooperation," survival in the slums of Feyst was impossible.

Without a word, the Man of a Thousand Faces handed me a pickaxe and a shovel. In his hands was an identical set of tools. Now, he looked indistinguishable from the thousands of paupers inhabiting this area: just as dirty, just as smelling of sweat and stale booze breath.

Wrapping myself tighter in my cloak, I followed the head of the Thieves' Guild out. We left the inn through the back door, not meeting a soul on the way.

As soon as we stepped out onto the street, another man joined us. The priest of Seguna introduced him as his assistant, but I wasn't fooled. Thanks to the "memory of the future," I knew who he really was.

Twilight Weaver, he called himself. A mage and alchemist of the Reardane Step. Master of shadows and poisons. Head of the Assassins' Guild in Feyst. It was he who stayed behind to cover my squad's retreat after one of our raids on the Legion of Plague's supply lines. He stayed—and perished, giving us a chance to escape. At the cost of his own life. Despite his chosen path, he was a man of the strictest principles and truly iron will. His guild, the "Cursed Shadows," never took contracts on honest and worthy people.

In the Last Cycle, it often seemed to me that thieves and assassins behaved more honestly, nobly, and bravely than those who loudly proclaimed their lofty ideals. A paradox, of course. But it was confirmed by deeds too often. Not that I meant to put such people on a pedestal—every one of them had a cartload and a half of sins to their name, and the blood they shed could fill an Olympic pool to the brim.

I barely restrained myself from reaching out to this old-new acquaintance, realizing at the last moment how foolish it would have looked. But the impulse didn't go unnoticed—I caught Twilight Weaver's attentive, almost studying gaze directed straight at me.

When we were three-quarters of the way, I stopped at a crossroads and looked around. The street was empty. Too empty, even for this hour. Usually, it was bustling here, but now not a soul in sight. Well, my plan was definitely working. With this thought, I turned left.

"Aren't we supposed to head to the ruins of the Night Owls' mansion?" Twilight Weaver asked almost innocently.

I stopped, looked both companions up and down, shrugged, and replied with a smirk:

"Is there still anything left to find there? Somehow, I feel that place has been dug up from top to bottom. I'm even curious—how deep did your people manage to get in such a short time?"

"So, what we're looking for isn't there," the Man of a Thousand Faces said thoughtfully.

His voice held no irritation or reproach; instead, it carried light, barely noticeable notes of respect.

"In your position, knowing my interest in these ruins, I would have sent people to turn everything over, sift through, and check every little stone. And since I don't consider you less intelligent than myself..." I didn't finish, just bowed politely.

For such a play with information, the priests of Antares would have long since taken my head off. But those who serve the Mistress of Night Cool were more likely to appreciate than condemn such an act. And indeed—instead of threats, I saw only understanding smiles.

"So, we worked in vain..." the head of the Thieves' Guild snarled, casting a glance at me, sparkling with a wicked mockery.

"If they found nothing, kick those workers out," I shook my head with feigned disappointment.

"And what, in your opinion, were they supposed to find?" the assassin, who had personally taken hundreds of lives, asked in the most innocent tone that nearly froze my spine.

"One of the twenty-five Blood Chalices, esteemed Twilight Weaver. Just one of the twenty-five."

They didn't show surprise, at least not outwardly. But something changed in their gaze. Nothing fatal, but the tone shifted. And that was good. Sometimes, it was useful to remind even such people that they were dealing not just with a mere sheriff. Before them stood an unknown variable they couldn't yet calculate.

"Imagine that, esteemed colleague," laughed the Man of a Thousand Faces. "It turns out even Opal-ranked sheriffs know your face."

"My oversight," sighed the assassin. "I agree."

"Planning to kill me?" I tilted my head with curiosity.

"A brother in Shadow?" The Twilight Weaver raised an eyebrow grimly. "Only for a truly hefty sum," he laughed carelessly, as if talking about buying a pastry.

Now, I was sure nothing threatened me. Until someone paid my weight in gold for my head, that man wouldn't even lift a finger.

Though I had to admit, the appearance of the Twilight Weaver genuinely surprised me. I didn't expect the Man of a Thousand Faces to want to hand over one of the altars to the Assassins' Guild. I always thought that thieves and assassins, to put it mildly, were reserved towards each other—each convinced that they alone interpreted the Lady's will correctly, while the others had just twisted its essence. And yet—look here. Generosity worthy of a ballad. Though... No, obviously, there was no talk of charity here. More likely, it was the beginning of some intricate, multi-layered intrigue. But asking, clarifying, or, Ain forbid, showing direct interest—was out of the question. First, they wouldn't explain anything to me anyway. And second, they'd think me an utter fool. Because only madmen ask such questions. Or those utterly out of their minds, like Nate or Dice.

My expectation that the Thieves' Guild would not only cordon off the ruins of the former Night Owl mansion but also clear out all the gawkers from the entire surrounding block was fully justified. Turning at the next intersection, I stopped at an unremarkable building by local standards. Many centuries ago, it was an ordinary two-story stone house, possibly even quite wealthy. Now, only two half-rotten breaches remained in place of the walls. The roof—a haphazard stretch of rags and rotten boards—wouldn't protect even from the lightest drizzle.

"Please," I gestured like a host, inviting my companions to enter these ruins first.

Exchanging glances, the two high-ranking Shadow adepts silently slipped inside. I waited three minutes to calm my nerves, then followed after them.

And the first thing that hit me wasn't the air but the stench. Suffocating, thick, dense as jelly. A mix of mold, rat nests, human excrement, and something else—old, forgotten, rotten. The odor didn't just linger in the room; it was part of the place itself, soaked into the walls, the stone, the rags hanging from the remnants of the ceiling. The walls themselves seemed an insult to architecture: stripped bare, stained, with dozens of inscriptions carved with knives, charcoal, and, apparently, even something worse. Once, they might have been plastered, but now only gray tatters remained, peeling like old skin. The floor was covered with a layer of dust mixed with rat filth, bones, chips, and something suspiciously resembling a crushed mushroom—with black slime instead of juice. From one corner came a squelching sound: rats, indifferent to our intrusion, were scurrying around in a nest of rags. Through the rotten beams and gaps in the boards, the evening sky shone—dull, sickly pink.

This place wasn't just dying; it was rotting alive. And in this decay—or rather deep beneath it, paradoxically—lay one of the oldest traces of the Goddess of the Night Cool.

The two masters of Shadow I found sitting on the fragments of a fallen wall. They didn't seem to care in the least about getting their clothes dirty. Noticing my approach, the Twilight Weaver lowered his head and said:

"Interesting. I know this place very well. I grew up nearby and, as a barefoot boy, ran here, hiding from..." he paused, "never mind whom. In that corner over there." His hand pointed to an especially dark corner of the ruins.

I didn't believe this story, but maybe he wasn't lying; I knew nothing about this man's past.

"I didn't even know there was anything curious here." He fell silent for a moment, then added, "Except maybe the remnants of the ancient sewers… but even those I've explored up and down."

"Not everything is as it seems," I shrugged, dropping my heavy cloak.

"Who better than us to understand that?" the assassin laughed, and the shadows, as if responding to his laughter, danced across the ruins.

"So, it's the sewer catacombs after all," said the Man of a Thousand Faces, getting to his feet and gripping his shovel more comfortably.

"Not quite," I shook my head, recalling the location of the secret entrance to the artificial dungeon. "The sewers are just another false trail."

"I'm even curious what new things this cheeky lad will tell me about my city," smirked the Twilight Weaver, scrutinizing me with a show of interest.

"Want me to tell?" I squinted.

"Are we in a hurry?" the Man of a Thousand Faces chuckled, sitting back down on the stones and laying the shovel across his lap.

"Then, I apologize in advance: most of the story you probably already know," I bowed theatrically.

"Go on then… just keep it short," the Twilight Weaver sneered.

In his hand, as if from thin air, appeared a slender, razor-sharp dagger, which he lazily began to use to clean the dirt from under his nails.

"Before the Fall and for some time after, at the very beginning of the Dark Ages, the assassins' guild of Feyst was known as…"

"The Night Owls," the master of poisons quietly responded, as if echoing words not yet spoken.

"Later, after the street war started by the servants of Antares, your guild came and took their place," I nodded to the Twilight Weaver.

"Look at that," he smirked, exchanging glances with the Man of a Thousand Faces, "came, he says... and took place... someone else's, turns out?"

"If I'm mistaken, feel free to correct me," I shrugged.

"No one took anyone's place. We've always been here. The Night Owls are us. The name just… changed. Simply changed."

Did the Cursed Shadows consider themselves the direct successors of the Night Owls? Or were they actually them? And perhaps they took the name "cursed" precisely after losing their sacred relic? Maybe. Or maybe not. I wasn't going to argue.

"As you say, you surely know better," I nodded and continued. "I'm certain that, like you, the previous leaders of the Night Owls suffered neither from a lack of information nor from foolishness. Such types don't last long in the Shadows." I flattered him slightly, and it seemed to work. "Naturally, they prepared for war with the servants of Light."

"They did prepare," confirmed the Twilight Weaver, who, I was sure, had access to the guild's most ancient archives. "A squad of the best and most reliable, led by a priest, took the Lady's altar out of the city."

"And this squad disappeared without a trace in the Patanga swamps," I spread my hands.

"Aren't you surprised by how much he knows?" the Man of a Thousand Faces lazily inquired of his Brother in Shadow.

"Want to kill him?" the Twilight Weaver asked the head of the thieves just as calmly. "I don't. I'm curious. But if you decide otherwise, I won't interfere."

"Sorry to remind you, but I'm actually standing right here in front of you," I remarked, letting my irritation show.

"Well, that's easily fixed," the priest of Seguna smirked.

His smile wasn't evil, more like… Predatory, cold. But I felt—he was playing. No one intended to kill me. Not even harm me. This knowledge wasn't from the mind, but deeper—the Shadow within me "whispered" this.

"So, that squad was a distraction..." the Twilight Weaver muttered thoughtfully, ignoring the jab at me.

"Yes. They even let the paladins catch up to them and all died to the last man," I confirmed. And then quickly added, "That's what's recorded in the corps reports."

"Corps reports?!" Now, I truly surprised them.

"Interesting... And how did you get access to them?" the assassin squinted.

"Not me," I shook my head. "I'm not capable of that."

"I believe you, but..."

"Alright. You want to know?" I spread my hands wide. "Sure, why not. I've got nothing to hide. Actually, I came from another world. A world that..."

They honestly tried to grasp what I was saying. For about three, maybe five minutes. Then they gave up, almost in sync, gesturing: "Enough, stop."

"Sacred Barrier," commented the Twilight Weaver, playing with a dagger. "Set by a circle of mental mages no lower than Mithril. And the ritual was led by a priest of Ishid or possibly Aerad. Most likely Ishid, judging by the sign this lad wears. Otherwise, one of us would have broken through the protection."

"Maybe so," the Man with a Thousand Faces said uncertainly, "or perhaps someone else intervened..." He glanced upward, "either the Lady or Ishid himself took care of his chosen's mind protection."

"I don't know about you, but I," the Twilight Weaver grimly glanced at the sky, "don't want to play these games."

"Neither do I. Neither do I," the head of the Thieves' Guild nodded.

"So, should I continue?" I asked, feeling the tension in my chest slowly ease. The hardest part was now behind.

"Just show us where to dig," the Man of a Thousand Faces waved his hand.

"Right where I'm standing," I said, even jumping in place to emphasize it. "But I must warn you. No magic. The altar's hiding place was built by dwarves. If we use magic while clearing, we'll cause a collapse. The altar will fall into the depths of Ain. So deep that even you, esteemed ones, will never retrieve it."

"And then those dwarves got taken out," the priest of Seguna smirked, glancing at his Brother in Shadow.

"How else?" the Twilight Weaver responded without a trace of embarrassment. And, extending his hand, he added curtly, "If there's to be no magic, I'll be digging too."

Naturally, I didn't object and silently handed my shovel to the head of the Assassins' Guild.