Solo Strategy

If I had been working alone, I wasn't sure I would have managed to finish the excavation before dawn. Hell, I probably wouldn't have dared to start at all without clearing out this ruin first. And that would have meant killing. Quietly, without noise, but for real. Beggars, cripples, drunkards... Those with nowhere to go, who slept under rotten boards among rat droppings and damp mold. Former craftsmen. Former soldiers. People I had never called for, had never known—but whom, if I were my old self, I would have erased from life without hesitation, because the goal was more important. My former self would have done just that. Not flinching. Just calculating what would be faster, what posed the least risk. And clearing them out.

The current me chose a different path. A difficult one, full of uncertainties, reliant on others' decisions and shaky alliances. Bold, daring, at times almost reckless. Yet a path where I didn't need to spill the blood of the innocent. And perhaps it was this unwillingness to kill again those whose only fault was their weakness that pushed me to implement the "audacious plan." Not out of nobility. Not out of pity. Simply because if I wanted to remain human—even a little, even at the edge of my soul—I had to choose not what was easier, but what I could live with afterward, without spitting in my own face whenever I looked in the mirror.

Yes, alone, I would have struggled with the excavation for a long time. Unlike the two Shadow adepts of the Heroic Coil of the Great Spiral, who managed in just two hours. Without a single spell or skill. Only tools, muscles, and precise movements.

At first, I thought I'd have to guide them—show where to dig, where to strike with the pickaxe, which stones could be moved, and which mustn't be touched. But I was wrong. I had only to mark the entry point, and from then on, they managed on their own without a single question. In a way, it seemed even self-evident: who, if not the heads of the shadow guilds of Feyst, would sense places where others hid something? Who, if not them, knew how to find caches in the most unsuitable and forgotten corners?

The underground complex, hastily built once by undermountain masters, wasn't all that large. Apparently, the builders were indeed short on time, but they managed to focus on the most important aspect: traps. Lots of traps. Beneath every stone, around every corner, almost in every nook of the walls, dwarven mechanisms lay dormant. One careless step, one relaxed brush of a hand against a wall—and you were dead.

If it weren't for the tour Morpheus gave me in the Last Cycle—in detail, with boasting, and endless comments on how exactly he found and disarmed this or that peculiar trap—I wouldn't have made it ten steps here. In the first narrow tunnel, where the walls squeezed together at the smallest pressure shift, I'd have been crushed. No chance. Now, though, I knew where to turn and when to stop. Where, for Ain's sake, not to scratch my head so as not to hit some random lever. I was ready to share this knowledge with my companions, but as it turned out, they didn't need it. It wasn't without a reason that they were among the best at their craft—capable of infiltrating the most intricately protected places in this world.

Descending behind the two guild heads, I repeatedly thanked my intuition for nudging me towards the "audacious option"—involving the Man of a Thousand Faces in the search for the true altars. I felt this especially acutely when the head of the Thieves' Guild disarmed a particularly cunning trap, either one I didn't remember or one Morpheus simply forgot to tell my "past self" about. If back then, in the morning, I had chosen a different path—a more cautious, seemingly "safer" one—my story would likely have ended right here, in this trap. Ingloriously. In the treacherous underground corridors that, as it turned out, were full of surprises unknown to me.

When yet another set of intricately linked traps had been neutralized, the Twilight Weaver approached four levers protruding from the wall and, without a moment's hesitation, pressed them in a sequence he apparently knew well. As I watched, I suddenly realized I was hunching my head down into my shoulders and glancing around nervously, as if expecting either the ceiling to collapse or the walls to close in, crushing my bones in a deadly embrace. Only the complete calm of the Man of a Thousand Faces kept me from turning around and fleeing immediately.

Why? Because I was absolutely sure: one mistake in the order of those levers, and we were all dead. More precisely, my two companions might survive. But with my Opal rank, I definitely wouldn't. And the most unpleasant part was that I remembered nothing about these levers. Nothing at all.

But apparently, the Twilight Weaver knew what he was doing. The ceiling didn't collapse on us, the floor didn't give way, and acid didn't pour over our heads. Instead, when all four levers were pressed in the correct sequence, a seemingly ordinary wall quietly, almost silently, slid aside, revealing a narrow passage to a small chamber, no more than twenty square meters in size.

At first glance, the room resembled a treasure vault—one from which everything valuable had been hastily removed. Almost everything. Because something still remained: a couple of richly inlaid swords on the wall, each seemingly worth at least a galley. At the bottom of an open chest lay a gold dish. The floor was literally covered with coins of various denominations.

"Fakes," the Twilight Weaver immediately declared, glancing at the swords.

"Touch them, and you'll meet the Lady," nodded the priest of the Goddess of Night Cool. "And the dish is a trap too. Picking up the coins from the floor isn't a good idea either."

"A snare for the greedy," the Twilight Weaver acknowledged. And then something caught his attention. Leaning down, he looked behind one of the chests and continued, "But here is something the servants of Light definitely couldn't pass by."

What he saw there and what he did, I couldn't make out. But when the head of the Assassins' Guild straightened up, I noticed an intricately crafted bracelet in his hands, almost an exact copy of the one lying at the bottom of my backpack.

"A trap for paladins," Twilight Weaver smiled broadly. "They would have definitely noticed this thing and then tried to either take it with them or destroy it on the spot."

"And turned into charred corpses," the Man of a Thousand Faces nodded. "Judging by the faint smell in this room, there are several barrels of dwarven fire potion beneath us. Mess up here, and even I wouldn't survive."

"Umm," I chimed in, after the pair had finished showing off their deductive skills. "If no one minds, I'd like to take that bracelet for myself."

"Why do you think 'no one minds'?" the head of the Assassins' Guild asked with a fatherly, reassuring smile that made my stomach turn unpleasantly cold.

"Does any of you know how to activate it?" I asked. "The Order of the Night Huntresses has been destroyed, and all their secrets are lost to oblivion. This bracelet won't be of any use to you. As for me... well, consider it a collector's interest in such rarities."

"He already has a similar one," the Man of a Thousand Faces nodded to his Brother in Shadow, thus unequivocally confirming that it was indeed his people who had rummaged through my belongings.

"I'm also a collector of sorts," the Twilight Weaver smirked and leisurely tucked the bracelet into the folds of his clothing.

"I won't insist," I said, spreading my hands in a conciliatory gesture and taking a step back, showing my open palms.

Of course, I really wanted to get that second bracelet. Just one look at it made it clear that the artifact perfectly complemented the one already at the bottom of my backpack. I wanted it badly. But clashing with the head of the Assassins' Guild over it would have been the height of shortsightedness right now.

"Altar..." whispered the Man of a Thousand Faces, approaching one of the walls. His nostrils flared, his fingers trembled. "It's near. I can feel it."

Closing his eyes, he placed his palms on the stonework and stood still for almost a minute. Then he pulled a dagger from his belt, cut his index finger, and drew an unfamiliar sign on the wall with his blood. For about ten seconds, nothing happened. Then there was a resounding click, and a section of the wall that had seemed solid slowly sank into the floor, revealing a passage. Pushing his Brother in Shadow aside with his shoulder, the Twilight Weaver was the first to peer into the opening. He studied the gloom for a while, then turned to us and, smirking, said:

"There are no more traps," and stepped forward without hesitation.

"I'll go first," I quickly interjected.

"Where do you think you're going?!" snapped the Twilight Weaver, blocking my path.

"Let him go," the Man of a Thousand Faces said calmly, placing his hand on his Brother in Shadow's shoulder.

"No! This is my guild's legacy. I must go first!" the assassin insisted stubbornly, placing his hand on the hilt of his dagger.

"Let him go," repeated the Man of a Thousand Faces. "And now I speak not as the head of the Thieves' Guild, but as a priest of our Lady."

For almost thirty seconds, the Twilight Weaver glared at him, but then, without saying a word, bowed his head and let me pass.

The Man of a Thousand Faces' intuition was spot on. After taking about ten steps down the narrow corridor and turning left, the true altar of Seguna appeared before me.

It looked... unusual. Even repulsive. Like an anatomically accurate replica of a human heart, only ten times larger and covered in dark, dried blood. Due to the flickering shadows on its surface, it seemed as if it was beating—pulsing, barely perceptibly, but eerily. Of course, this beating was nothing more than a play of light and imagination... But it sent chills down my spine.

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I had to overcome a tangible inner resistance just to get closer. And not because it looked disgusting. No. It was as if a wave of something alien, foreign, otherworldly emanated from the altar. It repelled not with its appearance but with its essence. Something you felt without even touching it. But I approached anyway. Stepped over my revulsion and fear, knelt down, and placed my palm on its surface. Warm. Almost alive.

I thought I was prepared. Truly prepared—for a command, for pain, for a mental blow, for an attempt to suppress my will. I expected pressure. I was alert. Tense, focused, as before a battle. But everything went... differently. I wasn't hit—I was embraced. Warmly. Softly. Almost tenderly. As if familiar arms wrapped around my shoulders, pressed me to a chest, and whispered, "You're home." A sweet, piercing, lingering wave of ecstasy coursed through my body. Warmth enveloped me from within, spreading through my chest, my belly, my palms. My head filled with noise. Space melted. Thoughts crumbled. A wave of alien attention—boundless, all-penetrating, ancient, inhuman—invaded the very essence of my being. And there, inside, it didn't demand, it didn't threaten—it comforted. Like a mother rocking a baby. Like Eternity saying, "Rest. You're tired. There's no need to fight anymore."

And I almost gave in. Almost...

My hands went limp, my body swayed, and my left hand slipped down, brushing against the case with the First Feather on my belt. There was no cut, just a light touch. But it was tangible, a physical contact that reminded me I still had a body at all. And this mere trifle brought me back to myself.

'Stop!' I mentally roared. 'You could just ask!'

I didn't know if I was heard. I didn't know if this cry was anything more than the last shard of my will, being overwhelmed by the soft, sticky twilight. But... it worked. Something beyond my understanding receded. Immediately, it became easier.

Slowly, hesitantly, I took my hand off the altar and froze, breathing rapidly, shallowly. My chest heaved. My fingers trembled. My temples throbbed.

What was that? An attempt at subjugation? Or... a sincere expression of gratitude? Thanks for finding the altar, expressed in a way only something far removed from human nature could?

I didn't know. And this ignorance scared me more than any threat. Because if I had been commanded, I would have known how to react. But now—nothing. No command. No urgent request. Not even a hint of coercion. None of that was present. Yet, a gift, a gift was left for me.

"Shroud of the Hidden Heart"—more of an aura than a spell or skill. This cloak allowed me to hide my true rank from any scanning abilities, as well as making it difficult for even the strongest mentalists to read my emotions and intentions—and, in addition, it had a calming effect on monsters.

Struggling to my feet, I returned to the pseudo-treasury on unsteady legs. Apparently, my expression was such that the two Shadow Masters chose not to ask a single question—and, to be honest, I was even glad about that. Noticing a spot on the floor free of treacherously scattered coins, I sat down directly on the stone.

The Man of a Thousand Faces gave me a scrutinizing look, nodded to his Brother in Shadow, and headed toward the altar.

My thoughts flowed slowly, as if through jelly. Besides, I truly didn't understand why Seguna's Echo had behaved so strangely this time. It was unsettling, pushing me to come up with more and more theories.

While I tried to gather my thoughts, the priest of Seguna returned, and the Twilight Weaver approached the altar.

To distract myself from the oppressive reflections, I began examining the treasure-trap. My attention was particularly drawn to two richly adorned swords mounted on one of the walls. And the longer I stared, the stronger my feeling grew that these were not mere props, as the Twilight Weaver had claimed, but real combat blades.

"This isn't a fake," I said, pointing at the swords. "This whole room is a trap for those who try to take the altar without the Mistress's will. So, leaving an obvious forgery here would be foolish. And those who created this underground vault were certainly no fools. Everything supposedly 'left in haste' must look convincing. Convincing enough to lure someone into the trap, not just pass by, thinking 'it's a fake.'"

"Of course," nodded the Man of a Thousand Faces, having listened attentively to my reasoning. "These blades likely once belonged to paladins of Antares, slain by the Night Owls."

Paladins? Yes, possibly. Considering the traps were clearly designed for servants of the Light, leaving such trophies would be logical in its own way. And treacherous. If any of the invaders recognized a sword—as a relic, as a symbol, as the weapon of a fallen brother—and reached for it... An explosion would follow. And all who entered here without the Night Sister's blessing would burn in a monstrous flame.

The head of the Thieves' Guild clicked his tongue and said:

"I wouldn't count on these swords as part of the trophies. For my Brother in Shadow, they are a reminder of a great past. Besides, selling such conspicuous weapons is out of the question. If you keep them, the first light one who sees you with them will immediately send a message to the nearest corps keep. And believe me, to such a call, they'll respond instantly."

"I understand... But they're worth..."

"Not more than your life," interrupted the Man of a Thousand Faces.

"Not more," I agreed, mentally saying goodbye to at least five thousand gold, which I could definitely use.

Yes, I wasn't short on funds at the moment, and by the standards of other earthlings, except Arien, I was quite wealthy. But more is always better.

"I heard everything." The Twilight Weaver appeared in the room and nodded at me with a frightening smirk. "Listen to your elders, young man."

"I'm not claiming them," I said, then added with disappointment in my voice, "Somehow, there are so many things that I'm not claiming today."

"How insolent," the seasoned assassin grinned even wider.

"I call him just that—Raven the Insolent," the Man of a Thousand Faces nodded affirmatively, then turned to his Brother in Shadow and asked, "Can I congratulate you?"

"Yes," the Twilight Weaver replied briefly, breaking into a genuine smile.

The priest of Seguna immediately bowed deeply and formally, saying:

"The Guild of Whispering Brothers, through me, congratulates the Guild of Night Owls and its head on the rebirth."

As much as I wanted to keep sitting, I felt it wouldn't be right. I stood up and also gave the Twilight Weaver a formal but respectful bow.

"Never thought this would happen," the assassin shook his head, his smile unwavering. "Certainly not in my lifetime."

"Don't thank me," the Man of a Thousand Faces spread his hands. "Without him," he nodded in my direction, "we wouldn't have known that the lost legacy of the Night Owls was so close."

Approaching me, the Twilight Weaver looked straight into my eyes and said:

"In gratitude for my guild being able to reclaim its legacy and true name, ask for whatever you want."

"To ask... in gratitude..." I grimaced. "It seems there's something deeply wrong in this..."

The Twilight Weaver clapped his hands softly, interrupting me, and said firmly:

"I am in your debt." He bowed his head. "How can I repay it?"

What was I supposed to ask for? Money? It never hurt to have more, but that was petty. If needed, I could find or earn it. A couple of kilograms of mithril?.. I actually squeezed my eyes shut at the thought, but quickly realized: even a single kilogram was unlikely to be in the assassins' guild's possession. An artifact? But I didn't know what they had—asking without this information was risky. Information? For example, the whereabouts of Nate and Morpheus. But why? Nate definitely wouldn't pass by the Deytran arena, and Morpheus wouldn't resist the temptation to poke around in the Kronis archives. Reject the reward, leaving the debt on him? That was foolish too. They wouldn't understand. It'd only raise suspicions. Ask to kill someone?.. There were names in my memory of the future, names whose absence would make this world a cleaner place. But... no. The temptation was great, but still—no.

"It would suffice if the Night Brothers didn't accept contracts on my head," I smiled. Then, as if casually, I added, "And the Night Sisters' bracelet still wouldn't hurt either."

"I'll send word to the Brothers in Shadow," the Twilight Weaver agreed after no more than ten seconds of thought. "Now that the Night Owls have reclaimed their name, they will listen to me."

Clenching his fist, he added almost in a whisper:

"They will listen..."

Reaching behind his belt, the assassin pulled out a Night Sisters' bracelet, tossed it in his palm, and said:

"A collector, you say... I don't buy it, of course. But something tells me you're stubborn, and other forms of repayment—like gold or precious stones—you wouldn't settle on?"

Instead of responding, I visualized my Perseverance stat.

"Fuuuu..." the Twilight Weaver whistled in genuine surprise. Glancing at his Brother in Shadow, he added, "Even mine is lower."

"And mine is about the same," the Man of a Thousand Faces shook his head.

"Then I won't offer ten thousand gold," the seasoned assassin said, casting a brief glance at me. And, with a heavy sigh, he handed me the bracelet.

Ten thousand?! Wow. That was a lot, even for me. I was tempted to say, "I've changed my mind, let's go with the money!" But I held back. Gold was just gold. A rare artifact, however, even if I didn't know how to use it yet, was still a rare artifact. Something you couldn't buy with mere money.

Shoving my greed to the back of my mind, I dismissed the visualization of my Perseverance stat and, taking the bracelet from the head of the Night Owls, tucked it into my belt next to the First Feather.

"And you, Brother in Shadow," the Twilight Weaver addressed the Man of a Thousand Faces, "you are the head of the Whispering Brothers only secondarily, but primarily the chief priest of the Lady of the Night in our city. Don't you wish to thank our new acquaintance for the fact that there are now two true altars to the goddess of Night Cool in Feyst?"

Two? Not three? So, the Twilight Weaver didn't know about the altar found in the underwater cave? How interesting... There was clearly some intrigue brewing here.

I was about to speak when I caught the sharp look from the Man of a Thousand Faces and quickly decided against it. I was still far too weak to meddle in the intrigues of such powerful figures.

"Agreed, Brother in Shadow," the priest of Seguna nodded and, turning to me, said in a voice full of paternal love, "How can I thank you, Sheriff of the Tunnellers' Guild?"

"A thief thanks a sheriff," the Twilight Weaver chuckled quietly into his palm. "What kind of day is this?"

"Why don't you go to Aerad's priests and have them draw a star chart for you," the Man of a Thousand Faces snapped back, more angrily than necessary.

Waiting for them to stop bickering and teasing each other—which took almost a minute—I said with an innocent smile:

"From you, esteemed priest of our Lady, I need nothing... Although... There is something insignificant and simple that you could do."

"And what might that simple thing be?" the head of the Thieves' Guild asked in a silky voice, sensing a trap.

"One of my fellow countrymen has overindulged today and caused on the steps of the city's main temple a bit of a scene..." I was cut off before I could finish.

"A bit of a scene?" roared the Twilight Weaver, slapping his thighs. "When a master of Illusions showed me that 'bit of a scene,' I snorted my beer!"

"I've heard about this story too," the priest of Seguna responded more calmly, though I thought he was barely holding back laughter. "So, your fellow countryman..."

"Yes. He's probably been thrown into a cell. Could you get him out? It really wouldn't be any trouble for you."

"It wouldn't," the head of the Thieves' Guild confirmed with a chuckle, turning away, clearly hiding amusement in his eyes. "Is that all?"

"And if, after his release, you personally treat him to a couple of bottles of that lavender wine I liked so much, I'll consider us square."

"Release him and drink together—is that really all?"

"Yes."

He shouldn't have been poking around in my stuff. Let him deal with it now. And I had no doubt that Dice would put on such a performance for him that the temple steps incident would seem like child's play. I just had that feeling.

The vengeful part of me purred contentedly when the Man of a Thousand Faces agreed.