Solo Strategy

I really wanted to see the Inverted Tower with my own eyes. To see it myself, not through the prism of "memories of the future." But in Feyst, the Tower was located behind the main Temple building, and I had no desire to head in that direction. Why? Because who could ever tell what Dice was up to? What if he turned out to be slippery enough to escape the priest's wrath, began running from the guards, and accidentally bumped into me? Then, before I knew it, I'd find myself sucked into the whirlpool of his "luck." I was probably just being overly cautious, but I couldn't help this flash of paranoia. So, the "tourist excursion" to see Sino's Inverted Tower would have to wait for calmer times.

With this thought in mind, I strode away from the main city square, heading toward the East Gate.

They said that long ago, before the Fall, this city covered a much larger area, and there was no wall separating the wealthy districts from the rest. That was likely true because it took me less than twenty minutes to reach the massive gate adorned with golden ornaments.

The walled-off part of Feyst was the city's glossy storefront, dazzling with its ornate splendor and blatant luxury. The architecture was extravagantly lavish, the streets polished to a mirror shine, and the fountains didn't just spout water but aromatic streams scented with lavender and grapes. No more than thirty thousand people lived in these quarters, including servants and guards. Everything else lay beyond the wall.

But once you stepped past the gates, an entirely different Feyst unfolded. Here, the polished pavement ended, giving way to dirty, cracked stones and patches of bare earth. The houses looked like randomly stacked boxes, cobbled together from whatever materials were at hand: wood, pieces of fabric, and wattle made of trash. The air didn't carry the scent of incense here; it reeked of smoke, sweat, slop, and despair. If near the wall, poverty was still cloaked in a semblance of decency, just one block in, and it felt like falling into a rotting basement. The slums sprawled like a fungal growth, with such a density of life that people seemed to breathe in unison. Compared to this, even the poorest areas of Beziu would have seemed almost noble.

At the gates, they removed the sheath from my spear without any questions. The guards here were only to keep beggars out of the wealthy quarters—they had no interest in what happened on the other side of the wall. And this was no accident. In the poor districts, you wouldn't find any guards at all. Everyone here survived as best they could. Merchants pooled their money to hire mercenaries. Craft guilds formed their own squads to protect valuable supplies and themselves. And ordinary people? They relied on their fists, sturdy doors, neighborly solidarity, and luck, if it hadn't abandoned them yet.

Stepping beyond the gates, I felt as if I had crossed the border between two worlds. Even the sun seemed to shine dimmer, and the air felt different: heavier, denser, with a hint of rancidness and human sweat.

The "past me" didn't like Feyst—and the current me understood all too well why. It wasn't just the contrast between blinding luxury and monstrous poverty. This wasn't merely a city of extremes—it was a showcase of human greed, avarice, and the dream of easy gain elevated to a cult. Everything here, from the architecture to the expressions on people's faces, screamed, "I want! I can! Everyone owes me!" In the eyes of every passerby—whether in a gilded toga or a dirty linen shirt—you could read the same thought: someday, I'd get lucky. Such a pure, foolish certainty that a bag of gold would soon fall from the sky, and then... then they'd show everyone what true fun is and how to live "for real."

Even in the most rundown areas, where roofs leaked and children scavenged through trash for a crust of bread, adults, upon scraping together or swindling out a single coin, didn't head to the market for food but rushed to the nearest wine den. Wine, smoking, powders, herbs, hallucinogens, opiates—anything that could help blind them to reality for at least half an hour. And then, staggering and having vomited into a gutter, they would crawl home, where their children had long forgotten the smell of soup but knew all too well what a parent in withdrawal or a perpetual hangover looked like.

Here, "work" was a curse word. Anyone who worked was either an idiot or hadn't yet grasped what "true fun" looked like. Every other vendor peddled dreams, like "potions of luck" or fake amulets that supposedly "attracted success." Every third person had already lost everything, including their future, yet never despaired, clinging to the belief that tomorrow, them—yes, them—would finally be noticed by Sino and yanked by the scruff of their neck from the gutter straight onto a bed of golden coins.

Feyst was not a city. It was a caricature of hope, a grotesque mix of gold and mold, where everyone was either already drunk or on their way there. And each firmly believed they deserved luxury, even if all they had behind them were empty bottles, shattered dreams, and a couple of dead rats caught for lunch.

Moreover, the locals conducted themselves in such a way that in most other corners of Ain, they would have long been stoned or, at the very least, beaten up with fervor. Take, for example, the beggar sitting at the corner of the crossroad, openly engaged in unabashed self-pleasure in full view of everyone. Even I, an earthling with much more liberal views, found it disgusting to watch this blatant, greasy obscenity. He didn't hide, wasn't embarrassed, didn't cover himself—he just sat there, swaying like a monk in meditation, looking at passersby as if they were the ones deviating from the norm. And they... they walked by. Someone even snickered. Someone, without averting their gaze, tossed him a copper coin, like a tip to a street performer. At that moment, I realized I wouldn't feel sorry at all if demons burned this place to the ground, leaving nothing but cinders.

But even in the foulest pits, one sometimes could come across a rock to stand on without sinking into the filth. And so it was here: reaching a crossroads, I turned left, walked another hundred steps, and entered the doors of an inn. It wasn't the largest, but surprisingly tidy for these parts, especially compared to its spit-stained, urine-soaked, and cheap-wine-reeking competitors. It was run by a retired caravan master—an "old-school" man, as my "memory of the future" suggested. He conducted business honestly, tolerated no laziness, theft, or disorder, kept his staff in line, and maintained cleanliness as a priest would an altar. Partly because he himself was an aging but still vigorous warrior of the Sapphire Step. Naturally, order came at a price: a room here cost nearly twice as much as at neighboring inns. But precisely because of this, you could almost always count on finding a free—albeit expensive, but at least clean—place to stay here.

Passing through a small dining hall from the entrance, I approached the counter where a man, grizzled but still sturdy, sat in simple yet well-made clothes.

"Om Raven, sheriff of the Tunnellers' Guild. I was recommended to stay at your establishment. I need a room for two days."

He gave me an appraising glance—lingering especially on my spear—then, with a stately nod, he curtly said:

"Ten silver."

Without arguing or haggling, I slowly counted out the money and, stacking the coins into a little tower, slid them toward the innkeeper.

Despite seeing me count the coins, the former caravan master recounted them, scrutinizing each one closely. In any other place, such distrust might have been taken as an insult, but not in Feyst—here, forgeries of every sort thrived. Of course, counterfeiters were constantly caught and then skinned alive before a heated and drunken crowd, but somehow, this didn't deter those eager to get rich quickly at others' expense.

"Kalyama!" the innkeeper called out over his shoulder.

In less than ten seconds, a well-groomed middle-aged woman dressed very plainly appeared from behind an inconspicuous door.

"Escort the guest to..." he hesitated for a moment before continuing, "to the fifth room."

"Sir," the maid bowed low, then straightened up sharply and gestured for me to follow her. "This way, please."

The fifth room was on the second floor, a small, immaculately clean single-room suite with a window overlooking the inner courtyard. It had little furniture: a bed, a nightstand, a wall-mounted wardrobe—and that was it; there wasn't even a table.

"Sir can safely leave his belongings here. The magical protection of our inn was crafted by Master Gobrat, a mage of Valirium rank."

"I have nothing valuable except for my spear," I sighed theatrically, lying to show that while I did care about the safety of my possessions—like any traveler would—I wasn't overly concerned.

Yes, experience from the Last Cycle suggested there wouldn't be any theft here, but still, I felt it was better not to tempt fate and pretend to be short on funds.

"Does sir have any requests? Lunch, bath, wine, herbs... Or perhaps a girl... or a boy?" the maid recited all this without any emotion, as if repeating a mantra learned by heart.

"No, I need something else."

At my rather simple words, a flicker of old fear crossed the maid's eyes—apparently, she was already bracing herself for some twisted and unpleasant demand from the new guest. Eccentrics often visited Feyst, seeking thrills forbidden in other parts of Ain.

"I need the following," I began, dropping my backpack and placing my spear at the head of the bed. "First, a cloak, thick and long, with a hood that can hide my face. I also need fitted clothes," I said, removing my armor and remaining in my gambeson. "Simple clothes will do, even something worn, as long as they're clean. Something that won't make me stand out from the locals and that I can throw over my gambeson and hide my belt. I have no desire to visit the local shops myself, so I'd like you to purchase everything."

"That is possible," the maid replied after a moment's thought.

"And I need something to cover my boots. I've seen the local poor wearing leather sacks instead of shoes—that's what I need."

"Alright," she nodded, not objecting or asking any questions.

"And lastly, I need a shovel and a pickaxe."

"Excuse me?" This time, I managed to surprise the maid, who had seen much in her life. "A shovel and a pickaxe?"

"Yes, and proper tools, not something that will fall apart immediately."

"That... alright, I'll find them."

"Here," I handed a small pouch of silver to the maidservant. "If there's anything left over, give half to the innkeeper and keep the other half for yourself."

"Two-thirds to the innkeeper and a third to me," she said quietly but firmly after peeking into the pouch.

"If that's customary, I don't mind," I waved off. "How long will the purchase take?"

"I'll manage the clothes in half an hour, but finding a good shovel and pickaxe isn't easy here."

"Fine. Bring the clothes immediately, and the tools can wait until evening."

"Anything else, sir?"

"Lunch. Five boiled eggs, a fistful of hard cheese, a chunk of bread, and a jug of milk."

"Our cook often prepares meals for travelers and can make a less spicy lunch than what's customary here," the maid suggested.

"No. Eggs, cheese, bread, and milk."

"As you wish, sir."

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"You may go."

Like a silent mouse, the maid slipped through the door and quietly closed it behind her.

After locking the door with a heavy bolt, I kicked off my boots, pulled off my gambeson, and collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.

The unexpected encounter with Dice, I must admit, shook me a bit. Sure, I "remembered" the antics of the future god of Rest and Wild Luck[1], but it's one thing to remember and quite another to see them firsthand. I was lucky not to witness his truly insane stunts. The "just for fun" performance he staged on the temple steps was—by his own standards—just a petty "ha-ha," hardly worth noting.

Yes, Dice knew how to "have fun"—there was no denying that. And he always came out unscathed, which couldn't be said for those who agreed to participate in his antics. Some, after a drinking spree with him, "woke up with their head inside a bedside table[2]." In the Last Cycle, I had a theory that Dice was so lucky because he unconsciously took luck from others. My past self was also a prime example of this: I woke up in jail three times after drinking with him. And once, I came out of a drunken stupor right on the scaffold—the executioner was about to chop off my head. However, it was Dice who pulled me out from under that axe—that I "remembered" too.

No, I was absolutely right to plan to stay away from him in this Cycle. As far away as possible. That'd be safer—both for myself and for all of Ain.

By the way, I wasn't even sure if Dice had ever cleared a dungeon, unless he'd done it on a drunken whim. Yet, he was already at Opal. Though, how he achieved that—better not to ask: he wouldn't say anything coherent anyway. Not because he was secretive, but because he simply wouldn't remember. Even how he had gotten his Adamantium Achievements—that he wouldn't remember either.

That was the kind of person he was—one who did not subscribe to notions of sobriety or a healthy lifestyle. But he was also the only one I could recall who could do what seemed impossible in principle. Only, for such a feat, he needed to drink himself into a state close to total lunacy.

For example, in the Last Cycle, without any rituals, he managed to shift his drinking buddies' Talent Stars in weapon skills. How? I didn't know, and he didn't remember either. And those whose skills got mixed up were not happy about it. Imagine someone learning swordsmanship, training until they were drenched in sweat, and suddenly, their Talent in swords nearly reset, but their potential in hammers and throwing weapons increased. No, thanks. I didn't need such "miracles" even for free. I felt more at ease when I maintained at least some semblance of control over what was happening.

So, I resolved to stick to my old decision—staying as far away from Dice as possible. Especially since now, I couldn't quite fathom how we could have gotten along. On Earth, I always steered clear of such funmakers. Apparently, to comprehend this, I first needed to work for Katashi for a couple of months and nearly lose my mind from exhaustion.

Although, if my "memory of the future" was to be believed, Dice turned out to be an exceptional friend—someone who would descend into hell itself for a buddy without hesitation. Granted, that was assuming he remembered he had friends in his drunken stupor. But those were just details. He was a good person, even excellent. Yes, with a peculiar sense of humor and an unhealthy attraction to debauchery and drinking—but everyone had their flaws. Even me.

Alright, there would be time to think about Dice later. For now, I needed to decide which plan to choose for finding the forgotten altars of the Night Sister: the safest but longest; the simplest but quite risky; or the boldest—the one that would allow me to do everything in a day with almost no effort.

Of course, the bold plan had its drawbacks. But if something went wrong, the worst that could happen was I'd have to forget about Feyst for about half a year. True, this option required me to rely heavily on "memory of the future," but it hadn't seriously let me down so far.

While pondering and weighing the pros and cons of each path, I managed to have lunch. And when the maid returned with the ordered clothes, I had almost decided on my next steps.

Not letting her leave immediately, I tried on the items right in front of her. I put the shabby-looking but sturdy leather bags over my boots, then threw on the cloak and asked:

"Do I stand out much?"

"You just seem very large compared to most," the maid replied after looking me over.

"Kalyama," I whispered, looking into the neatly dressed woman's eyes, "I'm a guild sheriff, and I need to find someone," I lied smoothly, "it would be very preferable if no one knew about my visit."

"Our inn maintains complete confidentiality of its clients," the maid responded measuredly.

Although I had the feeling she didn't fully grasp the meaning of "confidentiality," she used it appropriately nonetheless.

"Good. You have a back door, right?"

"Of course," she nodded and gestured invitingly.

Leading me to an unremarkable door, Kalyama opened it with an unusual-looking key and stepped aside.

"Shovel, pickaxe?" I asked.

"They'll be ready at sunset."

"Then see you this evening," I nodded and slipped through the door, finding myself in a narrow alleyway.

Before moving on, I deliberately dirtied my cloak by rubbing against the grimy walls and walked through some puddles. Then, slipping through narrow and deserted alleys, I emerged onto a fairly wide and crowded street. I slouched a bit, dropped my shoulders, and, with the gait of a not-entirely-sober man, headed toward the drinking establishment I needed.

I'd have to thank Kalyama later—she had picked out the right clothes, and I hardly stood out in the crowd. Except I looked noticeably cleaner than most passersby. And I smelled decent too, not like stale vomit, booze, and mold.

After wandering around the city a bit and making sure no one was following me, I slipped into a maze of shabby huts and emerged into a small square. Although calling this place—full of trash and knee- or even waist-deep puddles—a square was quite a stretch. Carefully avoiding the puddles and obvious dirt, almost hugging the walls of dilapidated houses, I circled around the open area and entered an outwardly unremarkable establishment—of which there were countless in this part of Feyst. No sign, no barkers, and even inside... Inside was simply wretched beyond belief. The benches were so filthy that sitting on them meant you'd have to throw your pants away afterward. And the tables looked like a cleaning rag hadn't touched them since the place was founded.

Apparently, due to the early hour by Feyst's standards, there were no patrons yet. Only a clearly tipsy bartender stood behind a makeshift counter and, spitting into a mug, for some reason, was wiping it with a piece of cloth that looked dirty even from a distance.

Honestly, the moment I stepped in, I immediately felt the urge to get out. I barely held back my first impulse and, pushing the disgust and revulsion deep into my consciousness, made my way to the counter.

"What do you want?" the bartender glared at me from under his brows, snapping as if I were not a customer but some beggar who had wandered in.

"Lavender wine."

"What?!" The bartender's eyes widened as he stared at me, as if he'd seen the ghost of his long-dead great-grandmother. "We only have beer and hard stuff."

"Wine. Lavender," I calmly repeated, as if not hearing his words.

And then, without paying attention to his reaction, I headed to the darkest corner of the room and, gritting my teeth, sat on the bench—I'd throw this cloak away later anyway. If the person I needed wasn't in the city, the bartender would come to me and place a mug of dark beer. If the person was in the city but couldn't come today, he'd bring light beer.

But no—not even a minute had passed before a dusty wine bottle, its neck tightly sealed with wax, was already on my table. And the bartender, as if it were the greatest treasure he'd held in the last decade, carefully placed in front of me two clean(!) glasses.

That was a good sign. Now, all I had to do was wait. Maybe ten minutes, or perhaps a few hours. However, if I could reach an agreement, even half a day would save me a lot of nerves and effort in the long run.

The bartender's behavior indicated that my wait wouldn't be long: he bustled about and then went to the entrance door, closing it from the outside, leaving me alone in this "establishment."

Not even a quarter of an hour had passed when someone sat down at my table. And they did it so discreetly that I hadn't noticed their approach at all. Just a moment ago, I was alone in the entire hall, and now someone was already sitting on the flimsy chair opposite me.

He looked like a very young guy, about sixteen years old, no more. A simple, freckled face, a snub nose, clothes like everyone else's: equally dirty and smelly. But his current appearance didn't matter at all—not for nothing was he called the Man with a Thousand Faces. A master skilled with both daggers and Shadow, as well as Nature magic. The head of the local Thieves' Guild. A warrior-mage of Mithril rank and, at the same time, the chief priest of Seguna in this "blessed by Sino" city.

"Oh, my favorite wine!" With seemingly genuine joy, the one who looked like a teenager but was one of the most dangerous people in Feyst, if not all of Ain, reached for the bottle and opened it with a single motion. "Want some?"

"Of course," I nodded, exuding complete calmness.

After filling the glasses, the "teenager" took a leisurely sip, then barked in the bartender's voice and intonations:

"What do you want?"

Not a muscle twitched on my face. Taking a slow sip of the wine, I turned the glass in my hand, grunted with satisfaction, and said:

"Ah, delicious."

"Are you immortal?" the "young man" asked innocently, peering into my eyes.

"Alas," I shrugged, feigning disappointment.

Someone like him wouldn't be scared even by a mithril zombie of a plague apocalypse.

"Who sent you?" asked the priest of the Night Mistress, leaning back in his chair, which nearly fell apart from such rough treatment.

Ordering lavender wine here was a signal to the head of the guild that someone from the "brothers in Shadow" from another city had arrived. And, of course, very few knew about the existence of such a signal—you could count them on two hands.

"No one sends me... I come on my own," I replied, cracking my neck.

It was a very dangerous game on my part, but thanks to the memory of the future, I knew a lot about this man. It was because of him and his efforts that the slums of Feyst hadn't completely turned into a cesspool. Unlike many other "brothers in Shadow," he remembered that Seguna was not only the goddess of thieves and night monsters but also a deity who protected the poor, the destitute, and the outcasts. Because of him, children here didn't die like flies but received at least minimal sustenance. And those adults who hadn't completely fallen found work. Not always honest work, but still work.

"How do they call me?" My companion appeared relaxed, but it was just a facade.

His question wasn't simple. I knew two of his "public names," but neither would be the correct answer. As for his real name, I had no clue. Perhaps everyone who knew it was long dead.

"You come on your own... whenever you want," I replied, not breaking eye contact.

"Ha..." The "teen" smiled, showing all his teeth. "You're right."

And he immediately refilled our glasses, which I took as a good sign. Yes, I wouldn't be killed here, but being thrown out of the city if I displeased this person was entirely possible. I wouldn't be killed because the man sitting across from me hated "pointless" murders. At least, I hoped that in this nuance, the memory of the future wasn't deceiving me.

"I don't like repeating myself," the "youth" said, taking a sip and looking at me in such a way that, had I not known about his stance on "killing pointlessly," I would have already been out the door. "But I'll say it again. What do you want?"

"The former Night Owls Guild mansion. Its ruins are three blocks east of here."

"I know," he replied curtly, and his voice sent a chill through our glasses.

Without showing my fear, I picked up the glass—cold as a shard of ice—and took a long gulp.

"At sunset today, there should be no one there. No residents, no passersby. Not even mice."

"Oh really," he said, impressed, though so far—only by my audacity. "And why should I do that?"

"You will do it," I smiled the kind of smile I imagined on a devilish tempter's face.

"I've never seen such a brazen sheriff," the "young man" smirked, then added, "Or rather, not a living one."

His hint was more than clear. And the fact that this man knew about a strange Guild Sheriff that had appeared in his controlled territory did not stir even a hint of surprise in me.

"Even if it's a Sheriff of the Book. The first in three hundred years," he added with a light, barely perceptible smile.

"Raven Alexandrite," I introduced myself, ignoring his threats.

"Raven the Insolent," corrected me the head of the Thieves' Guild. "I've heard of you."

Now, I was almost surprised. Almost, because it wasn't the best time for that. But who had he heard about me from? Two possibilities came to mind. First, talkative Miranda reached Pentapolis before me. Second, the newly-anointed priest of the Night Mistress had sent word about a strange sheriff to his "brothers in Shadow."

If the second option was true, it was actually perfect. What was I risking, really? If my next words didn't elicit the needed reaction, I'd just pretend I misspoke and try again.

"Since you know about me, you can guess what I can offer you."

Having said that, I conjured a visualization of my Affinity with Shadow above my palm.

"Wow, what kind of sheriffs we have these days," my companion grinned, not at all surprised by my demonstration, a hint that Miranda's gossip had nothing to do with this. "So, I should guess."

He pondered for just a couple of seconds, then leaned over the table and said in a sickly sweet voice:

"Consider it guessed. But I don't believe you."

"Well, if I'm lying, you can kill me later," I shrugged with feigned indifference.

"Hmm..."

Now he became serious. Deadly serious. In front of me already sat not a youth, but a middle-aged man with the most bandit-like appearance, a scar running across his face. However, even this face was almost certainly just an elaborate mask.

"Alright. At sunset, the ruins you're asking about will be empty."

"Excellent," I said, trying not to show that my throat had gone dry, praying that my four Stars in the Talent of Orator weren't just a joke. "But that can wait until evening. For now, while the sun is high, I'd like to take a walk with you toward the fishing port."

"And why exactly?" It seemed I had managed to throw him off.

"Because... two," I smiled, showing my teeth.

"Two?.. But..." The man opposite me froze like a statue, his gaze drifting off into the distance.

"Two," I repeated with a slight emphasis.

Without saying a word, the priest of Seguna rose from his chair and headed for the exit. He didn't make a single gesture, but from his unhurried walk, I understood I was to follow him.

[1] Translator's note: I hope Wild (Luck) here captures the meaning more or less accurately. The actual word used is "dumb/bad," but in some cases, it can mean "lacking control" or "being applied without control and restraint," especially when it's about force. So, the intended meaning should be closer to "undiscerning, unbridled, chaotic, unpredictable." I asked other readers, and most are also inclined toward this interpretation.

[2] Translator's note: regarding waking up with one's head inside a nightstand, that's a reference to an old joke: "A lunatic, wielding a bloodstained axe, is sprinting through the psych ward. A doctor intercepts him and shouts, 'Stop! What have you done?!' The madman chuckles snidely and replies, 'Just wait—this is gonna be hilarious! My neighbor is gonna wake up and find his head in the nightstand!'"