Solo Strategy

I returned to the inn just in time. I even managed to change out of Larindel's outfit into simpler clothes before the famous bard's performance began. I left the noble's brooch and the Sheriff's Sign on the table in my room. So, when I descended to the main dining hall, I looked like a moderately wealthy tunneller who decided to visit Sun City during the festival and indulge himself.

The familiar servant, noticing me coming down the stairs, immediately hurried over and, bowing constantly, led me to a small table right by the stage. Of course, calling the slight elevation in the center of the dining hall a full-fledged stage would have been generous, but the main thing was that my words were understood correctly, and I got exactly the spot I had hoped for.

To stay in character, I ordered the most expensive dishes for dinner. As for the drink, I asked for a specific type of dark beer.

I had just finished my smoked quail and was sipping my first mug when the minstrel took the stage. In one hand, he carried a tall stool, which he placed in the center of the elevation, and immediately sat on it. In the other hand, he held a zither—a stringed musical instrument somewhat reminiscent of a guitar.

The bard looked exactly as one would expect from a well-known wandering musician who desperately wanted to appear richer and more important than he really was. His clothes, at the first glance seemingly luxurious, were made from a variety of fabrics: velvet and silk, brocade and coarse linen. All elements were clearly chosen without taste, some sloppily re-sewn, and some clashing with one another. It seemed he scavenged each piece from flea markets or received them as gifts from enamored female admirers, hoping to create the image of a dazzling genius—and ended up looking like a patchwork doll. His hairstyle, defying the strict and neat fashion of Sun City, resembled a disheveled nest. A long fringe covered his eyes, making it unclear how he could even see the strings of his zither. It seemed he deliberately tousled his hair every morning to look like a "creative genius," but ended up appearing more unkempt than impressive. He looked about forty, of average height, sickly thin, with long, slightly crooked arms and a neck like a vulture's. His long, bony fingers, trained by years of playing, were adorned with tasteless but expensive-looking rings with colored glass and chipped gemstones. His shoes, once clearly luxurious with inlays and embroidery on soft leather, were so worn that the sole showed through in places. Every movement of his emitted a light but noticeable scent of cheap wine and dusty roads—not exactly repulsive, but definitely out of place for the "stage star" image he was trying to project. On his chest, the bard wore the sash of a solitary minstrel with a small opal at its center. Only, I could see he was definitely not on the Opal Step, but much, much higher. Moreover, his true rank was reliably concealed by some magic, much like Grandpa Wyuan's, and if it weren't for my unique ability, I would never have discerned this man's real level.

In my opinion, the minstrel's performance was rather weak. Sure, he had a good voice and played his zither skillfully. But his repertoire of songs and ballads only filled me with melancholy. All those praises of feats, songs of battles, hardship, and heroic deaths... Not my thing, though the people in the hall clearly enjoyed it. They generously tossed coins of various denominations at the minstrel, and after the ballad about the wedding of Antares and Dairin, someone even spared a whole gold piece.

During the hour and a half performance, I managed to down six mugs of rather strong porter, so by the end of the concert, my voice sounded just right: slightly hoarse, suitably drunk, and bold enough:

"Hey! Come sit with me, I don't like drinking alone!" I waved my mug in the bard's direction.

"Only if it's on your tab," he smirked good-naturedly, picking up his instrument.

"My treat!" I spread my arms wide, like someone flush with cash after months away at a tough job[1], and demonstratively slapped my palm on the table.

In a very similar situation, I met this person in the Last Cycle. Back then, I had just left Katashi's guild but hadn't yet joined Dice's group and decided to take a break from nonstop work at this very establishment.

My plan, based on knowledge of the future, worked again now. Jumping off the stage, the minstrel set his zither by the table and immediately plopped down on a chair opposite me, not taking his eyes off the mug in my hand.

"Servant! Two... No, four porters for this table!" I shouted towards the kitchen, even causing several people in the hall to flinch.

The bard drained his first mug in one gulp, then introduced himself, and we started a conversation about nothing in particular: the festival, the new recruits in the corps, songs, and whatever else came to our drunken minds.

Closer to midnight, when almost no patrons were left in the hall, I waved at the servant and demanded a whole keg of beer. When it was finally placed on our table, I grabbed it and, standing up, swaying and pretending to focus on the minstrel with difficulty, said with a slurred tongue:

"It's sooo boring here! Let's go to my room! We'll belt out some songs!"

And, without waiting for a response, I staggered off towards the stairs with the keg in hand. I had no doubt the minstrel would follow me. Not because he wanted to drink more or was eager for a drunken singalong. No. My confidence came from the fact that during our time together, I had made several seemingly accidental slips of the tongue and had definitely piqued his interest. After getting to my room, I opened the door, paused to scratch my belly, then handed the keg to the "bard" and said:

"You… come in! I'll… go water the flowers at the entrance! As Nemelida advised, we must care for the plants!" Laughing heartily at my joke, I left the "minstrel" alone in the room.

Going downstairs, I actually visited the establishment's restroom, relieving my bladder, and also drank a sobering potion and splashed my face with cold water. I waited three minutes for the potion to take effect, then spent another two sticking two fingers in my mouth to throw up everything unnecessary. After rinsing my mouth, I kept up the appearance of being very drunk as I made my way back up to my room.

Latching the door behind me, I turned around and immediately realized that the "bard" hadn't wasted any time either. Like me, he had clearly taken a sobering potion and was now more pretending to be drunk than actually being so. Sitting opposite my guest, I placed the keg on the windowsill without even bothering to pop the cork. There was no point in playing along any further.

"Shall we talk?" I asked in a sober voice.

"Weren't we already?" the "bard" mumbled, still pretending to be drunk, glancing greedily at the beer keg standing aside.

"Cut it out," I grimaced. "You've already rummaged through my stuff."

"What?!" the "bard" feigned surprise, jumping up from the table and, with his chin raised, added, "I'm no thief!"

With that, he walked to the door, unlocked it, and, giving me an indignant look, left the room with his head held high.

Shrugging, I kicked off my boots and flopped onto the bed, having extinguished the lamps beforehand. It wouldn't be an hour before that man returned. He'd make a racket downstairs, complain to the servants about the audacity of young tunnellers, pretend to leave the inn's premises—and come back anyway.

And so it happened. Only it wasn't an hour, but about two, when I sensed someone else's presence in the room. Didn't see or hear—just felt it. Not through the Shadows, which remained still, but through the echo of memories.

Sitting up in bed, I stretched and smiled at the dark silhouette calmly seated at the table.

"Raven Alexandrite greets a Brother in Shadow," I said, visualizing the Sign of Affinity with Shadows.

"I didn't know the Twilight Weaver was aware of my existence," said the one I had known in the Last Cycle as Wayne the Silent Blade.

It was this person who once opened my eyes to relying on Shadow in Antares's Inverted Tower. He was the one who helped me reach the seventy-fifth Floor of the Tower of Light. And he was the one I killed back then... Killed with a treacherous stab in the back, soaking the true altar of Antares with the blood of a powerful adept of Shadows. This act drove the Echo of the God of Light into an indescribable rage, and it delivered a devastating blow—one I let a quester take for me.

Not a teacher... more of a mentor. A mentor whom I killed.

No… Not me. Not who I was now. The current me had no intention of killing him.

"He doesn't know," I shrugged. "Just rumors... about a rebellious Shadow that kills not only enemies but also its own."

"I know those rumors too," the silhouette at the table whispered.

Wayne the Silent Blade—a unique person who gained Affinity with both Shadow and Law. A combination even more impossible than mine—Light and Shadow. It was because of his Affinity with Law that I acted so "fearlessly." He wouldn't kill me unless I violated his personal code. A code that, thanks to the memory of the future, I knew very well.

"The question is, how do you know about me, Sheriff of the Book, who intrigued the Paladin Corps with your appearance so much that you were even granted a personal conversation with the Bearer of Pacifying Light?" Wayne's voice sounded calm, almost indifferent, and it seemed devoid of any threat... but that was just an illusion.

"My conversations with Gera Joanna concern only me," I replied firmly.

When dealing with someone like him, you couldn't grovel, justify yourself, or show weakness. No, he wouldn't kill you for that, but he'd lose interest in you.

"As for your question, I will answer... but you won't understand that answer."

The silhouette behind the table leaned forward with interest and impatiently waved his hand, as if inviting me to continue.

"So, here it is... Questers. It all started with..."

Well, the Sacred Barrier, which prevented knowledge of earthlings and questers from spreading beyond, was truly a great miracle. Unlike the Man of a Thousand Faces and the Twilight Weaver, Wayne the Silent Blade lasted nearly ten minutes trying to break through the Barrier. All in vain, of course.

Waving his hand, the night guest stopped my speech, reached for the keg and, knocking out the plug, poured himself a full mug, which he drained in one gulp.

Getting up from the bed, I approached the table, filled a mug for myself, took a big sip, and returned to my place with the beer in hand.

"You are full of surprises. The Light favors you, and yet you have already found two lost altars of the Night Mistress and returned them to the Brothers in Shadow," Wayne said, shaking his empty mug, a lone assassin without a guild.

An assassin of the Mithril Rank.

"I found five altars," I calmly countered. As proof, a visualization of the "Pilgrim of the Forgotten Shadow" Achievement appeared above my palm.

"An Adamantium Achievement, no less, even inscribed by the Lady's own hand..." Clicked his tongue Wayne—the same man who, in his "free time," played the role of a mediocre bard for his own amusement. "So what does someone so unique want from someone as down-to-earth and simple as me?"

After a brief pause, he added, squinting slightly:

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"I've figured out already that you were deliberately seeking a meeting with me."

"I was," I confirmed without a hint of doubt.

We silently drilled into each other with our gazes for almost a minute before I spoke again:

"I need advice about what's at the bottom of my backpack."

"I'm afraid you're looking for that information in the wrong place," shrugged the one who made it his goal to destroy all those who became overly confident in their chosenness and lost their humanity along the way.

Not just a killer, but an executioner who would indifferently plunge his blade into the throat of a paladin as well as the back of a Brother in Shadow.

"The Great Library of Kronis might help you find an answer… or the sealed records of the corps."

Shaking his head, Wayne refilled his mug but this time took a slow, careful sip.

A pity. A real pity, because I had high hopes for this man's knowledge. From the memory of the future, I recalled he had a peculiar hobby—studying dark and shadow artifacts. Not collecting them, not selling or reselling them, but precisely studying, grasping their essence and nature, dissecting every detail like an experienced surgeon dissects an organ to find the cause of a disease. He could sneak into the most guarded house of some wealthy merchant who had just brought an unusual item to the city, and no—not to steal it, sell it, or use it. Just to look, comprehend, feel its uniqueness. But no one knew about this "secret passion" of his. Absolutely no one. And if I had allowed myself to demonstrate my awareness of this matter, the Sacred Barrier might have helped to conceal the true source of my knowledge, but even the ghost of Wayne's trust would have been lost to me forever.

In the Last Cycle, I asked him to be my teacher. He refused, though he helped me a lot. I wondered—if I asked the same now, would he agree? After all, unlike that branch of the probable future, I had two Affinities this time.

But...

No. I wouldn't ask for that. Apprenticeship with such a unique person would undoubtedly be immensely beneficial, but it would also require a vast amount of time. And I couldn't afford that.

"But perhaps you could at least tell me something about the Order of the Night Sisters? Why did the light ones destroy them with such ferocity and ruthlessness, as if they served not Shadow but Darkness?" I cautiously began.

"What do you want?" the solitary punisher answered my question with another.

"I'm not aiming to revive the Order," I said honestly.

I really didn't need that. But to empower one of the promising earthlings by handing her the pair of bracelets... For some reason, I thought it was a good idea. So, I continued, trying to choose my words carefully:

"But destroying these unique items or handing them over to the Corps or the priests of Antares is not in my plans either."

"Too many words," Wayne the Silent Blade interrupted me.

"I want to find a worthy owner for the bracelets, and I even have an idea where to look,"—among the earthlings, of course, but I kept that to myself. "But before handing them over to someone I deem worthy, I must at least roughly understand what they do."

"What they specifically do, I don't know. I only know that they are a weapon," said the chosen of Shadow and Law, seemingly accepting my answer.

A weapon... The bracelets were a weapon. That was at least something. It was quite likely that some unique Shadow spell was "encoded" into their patterns. I'd suspected something like that myself, so I didn't press further.

"As for the hatred of the Light Ones towards the Night Sisters, it's simple..." He took a sip of beer and, placing the mug on the table, continued, "The Sisters' Order was the personal guard of the Night Mistress, protecting her altars and destroying renegades. And if a sister who lost her altar survived, she dedicated her entire life to avenging those who dared to desecrate the sacred relic. It's said that many paladins and priests of Antares fell by their hands before the entire order, to the last sister, was exterminated."

The protection of altars and the elimination of renegades. If only I could understand whom the Shadow might consider a renegade... But those matters were from long past centuries and concerned me little.

Standing up and approaching my backpack, I took out a dark bundle and placed it on the table before returning to sit on the bed.

"I understand it might seem extremely presumptuous of me, but perhaps you could take a closer look at the bracelets?"

I was sure he'd already peeked into my backpack, but he hadn't had time to examine the shadow artifacts in detail. Now, I wasn't so much hoping he'd suddenly learn something new. No, I was just blatantly appealing to his feelings, to his hobby, thereby endearing myself to him.

Someone might say, "Ew, manipulation."

But I would respond: we all manipulate each other. Always. Everywhere.

The fact that I had guessed correctly by placing unique Shadow artifacts before Wayne the Silent Blade became clear as soon as he began to unwrap the dark fabric. He did it slowly, savoring the anticipation itself. No, his fingers didn't tremble in excitement—after all, this person could control himself flawlessly—but his gaze, his too-steady breathing, the barely noticeable pauses in his movements... All of this, if you knew him as I did, thanks to the experience of my past life, gave him away completely.

After unwrapping the bundle, he carefully placed the bracelets on the table in front of him. At first, he just looked at them, as if trying to see not the outer pattern but something hidden within. Then he ran his hand over their surface, using some shadow magic, listening to sounds or vibrations only he could hear.

He picked up the first bracelet only five minutes after taking it out of the fabric. He examined it very carefully, then literally sniffed it and, to my considerable surprise, even tried biting it. After that, he repeated the exact same procedure with the second artifact, never losing his focused composure for a moment. Throughout the entire examination, which lasted about half an hour, I didn't utter a word, completely blending into the dim light of the room, pretending I wasn't there at all.

"This was quite interesting," he finally said, carefully packing the bracelets back into the cloth and placing them on the table.

"Did you figure out how to fix them?" I asked.

"Why fix what isn't broken?" Wayne the Silent Blade replied with a slight smile.

"But…" I was at a loss for words and quickly tried to find them.

"The bracelets are in perfect condition," my companion took another sip of the dark beer and added, "One was damaged, but it was recently restored. I'm even curious who exactly did it…"

"A young master blacksmith," I didn't hide.

"A blacksmith? Not a priest of the Lady of Twilight? Unexpected…" he seemed genuinely surprised.

"A very talented young man."

I remembered that Wayne always had a special respect for true masters of their craft, so I was confident he wouldn't do anything bad to Katashi.

"And you showed a Night Sisters' Order bracelet to an ordinary blacksmith?" I didn't like this question at all.

"He's no ordinary blacksmith. He's someone who will soon become a Great Master. Besides, we're from the same homeland, and I trust him more than myself."

There wasn't an ounce of lie in those words. If I had to choose who I trusted more—myself or Katashi—the answer was obvious to me.

"Such trust often turns into the most painful stab in the back."

His words shook me. They shook me because I clearly "remembered" how "my" blade went into the back of the one sitting before me now, the one who trusted me in the Last Cycle and helped me reach the altar of Antares on the seventy-fifth floor of the Inverted Tower of Light.

"So, if they're not broken, why don't they work?" I quickly changed the subject.

"Because the third, final piece of the mosaic is missing," shrugged the Mithril rank enforcer. "A woman with an Affinity for Shadow who will wear these bracelets on her wrists."

"So, all the sisters of the Order had an Affinity," I logically concluded from what I heard.

"That's why there were never many of them," nodded my companion, who clearly knew more than he was telling. "The Lady of Twilight is very picky, and getting her blessing is not easy."

I knew that because, despite focusing on studying Shadow magic in the Last Cycle, I never achieved Affinity with Shadow.

"So, you were looking for me to learn about the bracelets?"

The calm voice of the Silent Blade didn't fool me, and I barely resisted the instinctive urge to reach for the Whispering Strike by my bedside.

"If I had even suspected that someone else could provide me with such consultation, I would never have disturbed you," I added, unable to restrain myself. "The rumors about you are too frightening to seek you out just out of curiosity."

And just a touch more respect in my voice, the kind that's barely noticeable. The main thing was to show no servility or fear, just the sensible caution of a reasonable person. Someone who was willing to risk much for knowledge.

"Rumors..." my companion grimaced. "Search magic... I thought it was impossible to find me. That I alone find those who interest me." That word "interest" carried a grave chill. "And now, today, these illusions of mine have been shattered by a strange sheriff of the Tunnellers' Guild, who has caught the eye of the highest-ranking paladins of the corps."

"I'm a Sheriff of the Book, the first in three centuries, blessed by Antares. The corps' interest in me is quite justified."

Oh, I was really walking on a razor's edge... Why did I ever think meeting this person was a good idea? It didn't seem so now.

"So, how did the one chosen by Shadow receive the blessing of Light? Or did you first win the favor of Antares and then the Night Mistress? No... That's impossible. The Shadow came first."

I had to give him credit: he was always sharp and well-read in the biographies of the gods.

"I wasn't seeking the blessing of Light. But... it just happened..."

"It just happened?" His voice carried a threat.

"I was set up..."

I didn't even need to pretend, to act outraged; I just allowed myself to remember the feelings that overwhelmed me on Gnur when I realized that Larindel had betrayed me.

"I was sent to certain death. Threwn onto a plague altar... A true altar..."

"Yeah, yeah, I've heard those stories, the kind that ends with, 'and then I was killed, son.'"

"No, I wasn't killed, though they tried."

With the most sincere smile, I extended my right hand and visualized the Achievement I received for destroying Nulgle's altar. Wayne scrutinized the Achievement for more than a minute, then a blade appeared in his hand. Naturally, it did so completely silently, as befitted his name.

"A human cannot survive destroying a true altar!" he declared unequivocally. "What kind of monster are you, taking human form?!"

"Stop!" I said sharply, not expecting such a reaction at all. "I'm not a monster," his blade was already chilling my throat. "Antares wouldn't grant a 'monster' the Light Affinity!"

In front of my chest, the visualization of the Affinity appeared. Phew... It worked. Seeing the Sign of Light, Wayne moved his sword away from my throat and returned to the table.

"Convincing," he nodded, and I removed the visualization. "But that doesn't change the fact that a human cannot survive destroying a plague altar. Thousands of diseases would turn a brave soul into a dried-up mummy within a day."

"Give me your word you won't kill me, and I'll explain."

"If your explanation satisfies me, then you have my word."

Well... We're all a bit like Larindel, regardless of whether we're humans, elves, or dwarves, whether we're on Iron or Mithril. Curiosity is one of the main vices of the mind. Or maybe it's not a vice but a blessing. The interpretation depends solely on one's point of view.

Achievements and their visualization were truly a miraculous thing. No need for long-winded explanations or proving you're not a camel[2]. For, you could simply show it.

And I showed the "Pure Palm of Five Empty Fingers."

I wasn't afraid this man would tell anyone what he saw. Wayne chose solitude. He has no friends, no comrades, not even casual acquaintances he could talk to. I couldn't even imagine what my past self had done to interest him so much that he had agreed to help me. The memory of it was reliably hidden under the veil of utter intoxication. After all, we first met in the Last Cycle, when I, breaking free from Katashi's supervision, got drunk for the first time in my life to the point of memory loss. Later, of course, my interactions with Dice broadened my horizons in alcohol... But that was later.

"Reborn Evelan," whispered Wayne the Silent Blade, in a raspy voice.

His gaze, locked on me, radiated utter bewilderment and overwhelming astonishment. Astonishment so immense that it broke through his facade of calm.

"Oh no, I'm not Evelan," I said, spreading my hands. "I'm the one who'll outdo him!" I repeated what I once told Sheriff Ender.

"Youth..." Wayne sighed, and a light, almost ghostly smile returned to his face. "Though... you do show promise. You're very young and already at Sapphire. You've earned several Adamantium Achievements. Chosen by three gods..."

"Four," I corrected.

"Four?" His hand, holding a keg of beer, trembled.

"It seems Sundbad blessed me too, though I'm not entirely sure about that."

Maybe I should have kept quiet... yet, for some reason, I couldn't resist. There was something thrilling about walking the edge in conversations with this man. Like pulling a wild tiger by the whiskers. Was I becoming an adrenaline junkie? This thought sobered me up and made me focus.

"And what did the God of Paths and Roads bless you for?"

No doubt about it... A bit of Larindel is in all of us. At least, it was definitely present in Wayne the Silent Blade.

"I sought the First Crossroad—and to my surprise, found it," I shrugged, as if it had been easy.

"Thousands have sought and failed... yet he found it," the assassin, whose very name made even fearless fighters flinch, shook his head. "Just walked... and found it..."

"Well... that's about how it happened, yeah." I chose not to mention my meeting with Ridan.

Draining a full mug of beer in three gulps, Wayne stood up.

"Only four have seen me in my true form," he said quietly. "And only one is still alive."

"I really hope that number becomes two from now on," I quickly corrected myself, "I mean, two alive."

"I have my principles," nodded the Silent Blade. "And I'm not one to make empty threats. Still, I must warn you, so young and bold..."

He didn't finish, but the meaning was perfectly clear.

"Warning heard and understood," I said, standing up after him.

"If you find anything else as interesting," his gaze slid to the bundle on the table, "leave a message for Corin the Hope Singer through the owner of this inn."

For a moment, I was tempted to show him Boundless Pride... but I held myself back in time. So, I just nodded in silent agreement.

Wayne approached the door and lifted the latch... but before leaving, he turned and, after a short pause, said:

"Joanna, the Bearer of Pacifying Light... be careful with her. A split is brewing within the corps. Don't get drawn into intrigues you don't understand."

"Thanks for the advice," I whispered, now completely alone.

[1] Translator's note: the original comparison is "like an oilman returning from a six-month shift." It's a well-known stereotype in Russia, as oil companies often operate in the far north, in harsh natural conditions and very far from civilization, but they pay extremely generously compared to the jobs you can get in a regular town. So, an "oilman" is a stereotype of someone returning after many months out there, his pockets full of cash, eager to re-experience the pleasures he didn't have access to.

[2] Translator's note: the camel here is a reference to an old joke, likely based on an eastern idiom or saying. It's usually mentioned when the speaker faces the impossibility of proving their obvious innocence in something.