Solo Strategy

The fishing port area looked significantly better off than most other places outside the city walls, exuding a sense of gray, difficult, but honest life. Here, people worked, not daydreamed; they toiled with their hands, not waited for miracles, and this was immediately reflected in everything: the houses, though without frills, were sturdy, built with care, and meant to last for years, unlike those in the slums—crooked shacks, as if cobbled together in a delirium from rotten planks and junk. The facades were haphazardly whitewashed, and the windows were covered with a film of soot, but all of this was earned, not stolen. The streets still carried the light scent of salt and fish, typical of port cities, but it was now heavily overlaid with the stench of rotting offal and decaying barrels.

Even here, in a place where some semblance of work pride still flickered, Feyst's presence was felt in everything, like the stench at the bottom of a barrel of dried mackerel. Dirt clung to boots, as if unwilling to let go, and the clearly rare attempts by particularly tidy residents to clean up looked pathetic and token. Several fishermen, already quite tipsy, sat right by the sea, dipping their feet in the dark water as if it were a holy font, and their faces showed the same Feystian weariness with life—though spent not in debauchery and idleness like in other districts, but in a perpetual, hopeless struggle with a rotten reality. The air was thick, slightly damp, and seemed to press down on shoulders, not letting you forget that you were in Feyst—even if you worked honestly and drank less than the others.

Standing ten paces from the edge of the waves lapping the shore, I gazed at the sea. Somewhere out there, in the direction I was looking, far beyond the horizon, lay Deytran—the trade capital of the world, which I still hadn't reached. A city that, unlike Feyst, the "former me" had loved with all his heart.

A step behind me, the head of the Thieves' Guild quietly stood without drawing any extra attention, this time looking like a seasoned fisherman: sun-bleached fabric, a worn vest, a weathered face. He could blend in here like a drop in the ocean. Unlike me, he belonged, and not because he lived here, but because his mastery let him become anyone.

The sun had already passed its zenith. Most local fishermen had finished their morning catch: some were returning to shore with heavy oars in hand, others were unloading their haul—not great, but honestly caught, reeking of sweat, salt, and patience. The eyes of the shrewdest traders, bustling between boats and crates of fish, darted quicker than their hands, each wanting to grab the best, the cheapest, as fast as possible, just to sell it off before evening.

Above all this noisy, vibrant chaos, hundreds of seagulls circled, vocal, brazen, eternally hungry. Their piercing cries tore through the air, carrying over the water, the houses, the city, adding another feathered, frantic melody to Feyst's cacophony. Occasionally, one would dive sharply down, and, if luck was on its side, snatch a fish, leaving the fishermen only to curse helplessly in response.

Unlike Deytran, Feyst was blatantly unlucky with its coastline. The shallows here were treacherous and unpredictable: sandbars stretched everywhere, rocks—sharp like the teeth of a sea monster—lay hidden beneath the surface, and the few navigable channels constantly shifted due to currents and sediment. Even experienced navigators found it hard to chart these waters, let alone the merchant caravans, whose bulky ships with deep drafts risked running aground or getting holed by an underwater reef. The city authorities, of course, tried to cut a channel, clear the way, but it was like fighting quicksand—labor-intensive, costly, and almost fruitless. Compared to the convenient deep-water harbor of Deytran, the local port looked like a pathetic attempt to play at being a trade hub.

On the other hand, for small fishing boats, these waters were a true blessing. Where a heavy ship would get stuck near the shore, a light, fragile boat could easily and deftly navigate. The shallow depth and unique current patterns created a rich feeding ground here: there was so much fish that, according to rumors, in particularly lucky years, you could scoop it up with buckets right from the pier. Perhaps this was the only consolation for those who made their living from the sea in this town—the sea here did not offer a path to wealth, but at least it kept them from starving.

Amidst the chatter of merchants and fishermen, as well as the frenzied cries of seagulls, the sound of the waves crashing on the shore was almost inaudible, even though I stood just a few steps from the waterline. Without turning my head, I quietly said, confident that I would be heard:

"We need a boat."

"We?" with a hint of a feigned surprise said the warrior-mage of the Mithril rank standing behind me.

"Do you want to leave me to search for it on my own?" I replied sarcastically, still not turning my head.

"So, a boat," the priest of Seguna drawled.

"I could hire one myself, but I'm sure you could do it better and without drawing unnecessary attention."

Since I had decided to take this route, why not fully exploit the situation by offloading some of the work onto my temporary companion?

"Your impudence knows no bounds."

In the voice of the head of the Thieves' Guild, I sensed a metallic scrape, as if two sharp daggers clashed. Turning to him, I replied with a feigned air of independence:

"As we say where I come from, 'Impudence is a second blessing.'"

"Ha!" My companion smiled, revealing teeth that seemed rotten, literally eaten away by decay, though it was nothing more than a skillful illusion. "I'll remember that."

Having said that, the head of the Thieves' Guild turned away and, with the stride of an experienced sailor, headed towards the largest crowd of fishermen, who were noisily arguing, gesturing wildly, and boasting about their morning catch.

Not even five minutes had passed when the priest of Seguna waved me over. Though he didn't seem to pay anyone, he still managed to secure us a boat—just an ordinary, nondescript fishing dinghy with a small mast, no taller than me. There were dozens like it around.

As soon as I jumped in, the head of the Thieves' Guild tossed me a pair of massive, roughly hewn oars, clearly indicating he had no intention of rowing. I simply nodded in response—it was no big deal for me. After fitting them into the rusted rowlocks, I settled onto the rowing bench. At that moment, the knots that had securely held the boat at the dock seemed to untie themselves, and the mooring rope, made of roughly processed hemp, as if having a will of its own, leaped into the boat and coiled up neatly.

Glancing at the priest of Seguna, who had comfortably settled at the stern and pretended to doze off, as if he had nothing to do with the rope's independent behavior, I closed my eyes, recalling the route. Then, using air magic, I pushed the boat away from the pier. It was rough and clumsy—most of the airflow went into the water—but despite that, the boat, caught by the next wave, slowly, almost reluctantly, still moved away from the dock.

My clumsy use of Air magic didn't go unnoticed; the lips of the supposedly sleeping priest of Seguna curled in a hint of a disdainful smirk. Whatever. I only started learning this element yesterday, and the mere fact that I managed anything at all was a real miracle by local standards.

Taking my time to get used to the oars and the quirks of the boat, I turned our little vessel around and began rowing it away from the shore with broad, strong strokes. After about ten minutes, I had fully mastered the handling, though I still didn't dare to set the sail. Besides, it wasn't really needed: with my strength as a warrior of Opal rank, the boat confidently reached a speed of no less than nine knots. It could have gone faster—had power to spare—but the fishing dinghy wouldn't have withstood such treatment; it was already creaking as if about to fall apart at any moment.

Peering into the low cliffs rising no more than a couple of dozen meters above the water, I tried to find familiar landmarks—the ones etched in my memory thanks to the experience of the future. About an hour passed before I managed to spot something recognizable. Adjusting my course, I turned the boat toward the shore and, trying to stay as close to the cliffs as possible without getting thrown onto the rocks, continued along the coast. This change in direction didn't go unnoticed: the head of the Thieves' Guild opened his eyes, stretched like someone who had just emerged from sleep, then lazily looked around, pressing his palm to his forehead like a visor.

"And yet," the warrior-mage of Mithril began, as if he wanted to discuss the weather, "I don't understand, why two?"

"The answer 'just because' wouldn't satisfy you?" momentarily forgetting who was sitting next to me, I replied with a question as I continued to row and examine the cliffs.

Paying no attention to my words, the head of the Thieves' Guild continued, as if thinking out loud:

"During the Fall and the Dark Ages that followed, many sanctuaries were lost. And the purges by the servants of Light took their toll. We preserved our sanctuary..." By "we," he clearly meant the Thieves' Guild of Feyst. "But those following the path of Blood did not. This I know. For centuries, it was believed that the altar entrusted by our Lady to those on the path of Blood in this city was destroyed by the Paladin Corps. Not everyone believed this, and many searched... But they did not find... And now you appear."

The gaze of the priest of Seguna seemed to try to peer into my soul. But after dealing with Arien, such tricks didn't faze me, so I just shrugged and replied:

"You know that I have already managed to find one altar of the Lady."

"That's the only thing holding me back, the only thing..." What exactly it was holding him back from, he didn't say, but the context made it clear. "I suppose you somehow learned where the sanctuary of the Lady, lost by the Assassins' Guild of Feyst, is located. How you found out is irrelevant. Perhaps you discovered some ancient records, or your patron Ishid hinted at something," he frowned, glanced at the sky, and continued, "Of course, I'm curious, but don't worry. I've lived long enough to know when to be curious and when it's better to hold back. Your appearance, the first Sheriff of the Book in three centuries, and your incredible knowledge of what was lost to time reminds me too much of some intrigue concocted by the Echoes of fallen gods. An intrigue best avoided."

His words carried the wisdom and experience of a man who had seen much. In his place, I would also, given the choice, keep gods and, more so, questers at a distance no less than a cannon's shot. But my problem was that my choices were, to put it mildly, very limited.

"But the shrine of the Bloody Path of Shadows—that's just one lost altar. One. And you mentioned two."

And again that look, as if two daggers were about to pierce my eye sockets.

"Long ago, even before the Fall," I began from afar, "no one even thought that the altars of our Lady had no place in the temples of the Pantheon. Back then, in all temples, in the most prominent place, to the left of Eyrat, always stood a pair: Obeorn and his Spouse, the Mistress of the Night Cool. And even the fanatics of Light dared not say anything against it."

"I've read about those times, but even now, all these stories seem no more than fairy tales to me," the head of the Thieves' Guild grimaced. "That the 'light ones'," he said the words as if spitting them out, "tolerated such proximity? I don't believe it."

"Nevertheless," I shrugged, indifferent to what he believed, "that's how it was." Since my companion made no attempt to interrupt me, I continued the story. "The Fall of the gods changed many things. Especially Obeorn's betrayal, which took its toll not only on his Spouse but also on Her followers. Antares' servants, like ravenous bloodhounds, searched the world for the true altars of both the Dark Trinity and our Lady. And while they mercilessly destroyed the altars of Darkness, disregarding any sacrifices, they simply sealed or hid the shrines of the Night Mistress so that no one could find them."

"Our guild's legends remember those times," the warrior-mage of Mithril said thoughtfully.

"Many centuries ago, the priests of Light, together with the Order of Paladins, came to Feyst. But they did not find the Night Sister's altar in the city's main temple."

"Our legends say that the paladins destroyed that altar!" The head of the Thieves' Guild's eyes filled with blood.

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"Let's find out, let's find out..."

Not wanting to stir up trouble by pointing out that many legends, to put it mildly, lied, I shrugged and, with the most nonchalant look I could muster with my three-and-a-half Stars in Acting Talent, continued rowing and examining the coastal cliffs.

To my relief, the one known as the Man of a Thousand Faces quickly composed himself and didn't slice me into thin pieces with his daggers for daring to doubt the truth of his guild's legends and tales.

At that moment, I noticed a characteristically twisted tree growing right on the rocks and reached for the anchor rope. I unraveled the coil and threw the anchor into the water.

"In ancient times, before the Fall," I began, starting to undress, "Feyst was not yet such a filthy and poverty-stricken city. In that blessed and happy time, this city was especially famous for its Star Pearls... Pearls that were harvested in these very waters. But the global cataclysm that erupted after the Fall changed the contours of the seabed and redirected local currents, causing the Star Clams to stop being born here."

For a moment, it seemed the head of the Thieves' Guild would interrupt me, but he restrained himself, only pressing his lips into a thin line.

Having taken off my gambeson and placed it on the rowing bench, I immersed my arm up to the elbow in the water, then turned my head towards my companion and continued:

"Underwater, a twilight reigns," I said with a smile. "Light barely reaches the bottom. In those depths, shadows and half-tones rule. Those who harvested Star Pearls revered the goddess of Twilight more than any other deities. These divers didn't have their own true altar of the Night Sister, unlike your guild, for instance. But upon learning that a procession of priests of Antares accompanied by paladins was approaching the city, it was they who stole the true altar from the temple and managed to hide it."

In the eyes of the priest of Seguna, I saw understanding. He grasped why I was telling him all this.

"I've never heard that story," said the Man of a Thousand Faces, gently dipping his hand into the seawater.

"Probably because as soon as the pearl divers hid the altar, an earthquake buried not only all traces but also those who defied the will of the servants of Light," I replied to his doubts.

"Let's say... let's say it did happen," the priest's voice was laced with a fair amount of skepticism. "But if everyone died and no traces were left, how did you learn about all this after so many centuries?"

A very, very awkward question. Especially since it wasn't me who found out, but Morpheus—a man who, in my opinion, would even give Sherlock Holmes a run for his money. So, I looked into the eyes of the head of the Thieves' Guild and said innocently:

"Do you really want to know?"

For a moment, I thought he would nod in agreement, and I'd have to lie even more. But suppressing a flash of curiosity, my companion grimaced as if he had bitten into the sourest lemon and shook his head.

"You weave your tales too smoothly," the Man of a Thousand Faces literally hissed. "But if this is some game, know this: you won't die quickly."

"I don't plan on dying today at all, you know," I shrugged, hoping he didn't notice the hair on my back standing on end. "Not quickly, not slowly."

As I was nearly undressed, the head of the Thieves' Guild stood up and began pulling off his clothes.

"If I understood correctly, we'll have to dive," he said.

"We?" I was surprised. "I thought you would stay and watch the boat."

"The boat?" my companion smirked. "Oh, trust me, it's not going anywhere from here. But I can't let you go alone now... and I don't want to. And even if it's a trap, whoever sent you to lure me into it will deeply regret their cunning and extremely short-sighted plans."

His smile made me feel really uneasy. Since I had no intention of luring him anywhere, I just brushed off the threat. Leaving on only my Armani-made briefs, I took a deep breath and dove into the sea like a fish.

Despite the depth where we anchored being less than twenty meters and my physical attributes far surpassing human limits, the journey to the target turned out to be exhausting. We dived eleven times before I finally found the right spot—a pile of boulders on the seabed, covered in algae and barnacles, with small fish crowded in the crevices. It took three more dives to clear the passage using the Destruction rune and reveal the entrance to the underwater cave.

I worked alone. The Man of a Thousand Faces didn't even think about descending to the blockage. He swam above, leisurely, with the grace of a predator, never taking his eyes off me. Clearly, it wasn't out of idle curiosity—he was looking for a threat. Or for confirmation of his suspicions. Trust from people like him isn't bought; it's either earned, or it doesn't exist at all.

When I managed to break through the blockage, I surfaced for air, caught my breath, shook off the heaviness in my limbs, and went for the final dive. And in the very first seconds, squeezing into the narrow underwater passage, I clenched my teeth in frustration: I should have asked Arien to teach me the Air Bubble spell. I knew I would end up here. Knew it. But I forgot about this detail. And now I had to force my way forward, laboriously pushing off with my knees and elbows against the rough, uneven walls in the icy silence, where the sound of my own heart was almost the only thing I could hear, and with each second, the air in my lungs turned into hot lead. Rocky outcrops scratched my skin, the tunnel narrowed and twisted like the gut of an ancient monster. There was almost no air left, but I was confident I could make it. I had to push through the dense darkness, relying on strength, the memory of the future, and the count of heartbeats.

I was lucky that the cave, discovered thanks to Morpheus's hint, had once served as a simple small temple. It had been set up by ordinary pearl divers, without traps or cunning mechanisms. I was lucky, but that wasn't enough. Everything that Morpheus's team had cleared in the Last Cycle, I now had to tackle alone. If it weren't for the Des rune, which tore through two particularly narrow sections, I might not have made it, as there was no air left for the return journey. I wouldn't have drowned—I would have suffocated. And I would have been lost in that stone "throat," like those who, many centuries ago, defied the will of the servants of Light and buried themselves in these waters forever.

What particularly angered me was not so much that the head of the Thieves' Guild following me didn't help, but how he behaved. He wasn't just swimming—he was gliding underwater as if he were not a guest but a rightful inhabitant. His movements were smooth, precise, and almost languid, as if there was no resistance from the water, no pressure, no lack of air, no fatigue. I watched as he sometimes rose above me, sometimes disappeared into the depths, and each time, I believed less and less that he was a human and not an illusion of a sea spirit taking on a human form. It seemed breathing was unnecessary for him.

Nevertheless, I managed. I didn't care how gracefully he glided between the rocks—I just needed to get the job done. On the last remnants of air, when my lungs burned like fire and my temples throbbed so hard that the sound reverberated into my bones, I broke through. Another boulder blocking the tunnel gave way, and I burst to the surface.

The breath I took was not just a relief—it was a revelation. The stale air, thick with mold, fungal spores, moisture, and decay, seemed like ambrosia to me. It was as if I was drinking it, drinking desperately, gulp after gulp, with such greed as if I were truly returning from the dead. Simply to breathe—what joy it turned out to be!

For almost two minutes, I lay sprawled on the water's surface like a starfish, allowing my body to recover. Waves quietly lapped against the walls, water dripped somewhere, the air was heavy, sluggish, and even the gloom around felt tangible—viscous, deep, like a mass of tangled algae. The cave into which the underwater passage had led us was plunged into absolute darkness. Of course, I could have summoned a Flashlight and flooded everything with light, but I knew: the priest of Seguna was close to me. To invoke Light in his presence would have been as good as spitting in his face. Nonetheless, thanks to my Affinity with Shadow, I could make out certain outlines. For instance, I could sense precisely that if I reached out my arm, I would touch a stone ledge and be able to climb out of the water.

Before I did so, my companion surfaced nearby without a single splash. My shadow sense reacted even before he appeared: the tense silence changed, and I felt the presence of a person next to me. He raised his palm above the surface, and a fire ignited on it. Not scorching, not predatory—dense, thick, steady, like a torch sealed in glass. Its flame was enough to illuminate the entire cave: rough walls, uneven ledges, black patches of moss, the dull moisture on the stone.

From the memories of the previous cycle, I knew there wouldn't be anything remarkable here. And indeed, it was just a cave. No ancient symbols, no hidden relics, no stalactites, not even the trite gold. A bit disappointing—yet fitting in its own way, as this place was chosen by simple pearl divers, ordinary workers.

Climbing out of the water, I shook myself off, feeling heavy drops running down my body. I smoothed my hair with my hand to keep it out of my eyes. The boat was left somewhere behind, in the seemingly distant daytime world.

"Curious..." the Man of a Thousand Faces said softly, almost cautiously, as if not wishing to disturb ancient spirits. "There are dozens, if not hundreds, of such caves along the coast of Feyst."

'And some of them your guild uses as warehouses,' I thought, but wisely kept it to myself.

"I thought I knew them all," continued the priest of Seguna, examining the walls and ceiling with undisguised interest.

He took a few steps forward, touched the stone with his palm... and inhaled greedily, like a hunter catching the scent of prey. His nostrils flared, his face tensed, and his gaze became sharp and focused. A minute passed in a tense silence. Then he abruptly turned to me. He didn't approach or threaten, but I knew: if he wanted, I wouldn't even have time to blink before I was dead.

"Until the last moment, I thought you were lying," he said in a barely audible whisper. Without the Perception aura, I wouldn't have caught his words. "Hoped for a miracle, but didn't believe."

At that moment, he changed again. Before me stood neither a fisherman nor a killer, but a weary wanderer who had traveled hundreds of roads. A snap of his fingers—and a sphere of fire flew from his palm, rising to the cave ceiling, filling the space with a soft, pulsating light. He needed no guidance. The priest of Mithril rank simply felt, knew where to look. Running his hand along the stone wall, the head of the Thieves' Guild moved forward. No spells, no gestures—just by sheer strength, he shifted a massive granite slab that had blocked the path for centuries and stepped deeper into the cave, lighting another flame on his palm.

'Damn! Will this altar count for me if it's he who sees it first and not me?'

The thought flashed instantly, piercing sharply like a red-hot needle. I immediately darted forward, caught up with my companion, and while he paused in the second chamber, examining the scattered skeletons on the floor, I dove into a side niche.

There it was. The altar.

Not as majestic and large as the last one—just half a meter high. A statue of a dolphin holding a smooth black pearl in its teeth. No gold, no runes, no glow. But I knew, felt with the Shadow within me—it was genuine. True altar.

Without wasting a second, I dropped to my knees and placed my palm on the stone, on the altar of the Goddess of the Night Cool. Just before the priest appeared behind me.

The presence of the Echo of the Night Mistress I sensed immediately. It needed no explanation—it was felt in my skin, bones, and every fiber of my being. An immense will, inexorable and alien, touched my consciousness, like the gaze of a faceless abyss: not malicious, not evil—simply seeing nothing in me but a speck of dust, a random mote in the stream of eternity.

The mental pressure struck my Core with such force that it seemed to crack, like an overripe fruit hit by a stone. My shoulders slumped on their own, the hand resting on the altar trembled—and only through sheer will did I prevent it from slipping. In the next moment, I heard—no, not with my ears, but directly in my mind—a command. Not a request. Not a suggestion. A command. Wordless, but clear to the last detail: find a priest.

Again.

The Echo's urge entered my head like a heated wedge. I knew it wouldn't be difficult to fulfill this demand—the Man of a Thousand Faces certainly would not leave the newly recovered altar without a priest. And yet... a wave of anger rose within me. Almost fury. Not noble, not lofty—human, alive, searing. 'What the hell, Ain? Why does someone, even a deity, decide for me what I should want? Why should I bend?'

'No,' I replied. And then, with my will, stubborn and creaking on the verge of breaking, I repeated: 'No.'

The command sounded again, filling my entire mind almost completely. The pressure intensified. It felt as if a giant hand clamped down on my consciousness and began to slowly, agonizingly squeeze. My ears rang, black circles floated before my eyes. Another moment, it seemed, and I would be smeared across the cave stones as a bloody pulp. But I kept saying "no." Each time quieter, slower—but I refused. And it didn't matter if it lasted a second or an eternity. I fought until I realized: my resistance would kill me. And in the end, I gave in. Turned out, I wasn't cut out to be a hero who could challenge the gods. I just wasn't…

When I felt that my stubbornness would kill me faster than divine punishment, I bowed my head and mentally whispered, 'Alright. I'll find one. Within five years.'

For a moment, a ringing silence hung in my mind. The pressure vanished as if it had never existed. Then, to my great surprise, the Echo accepted my terms.

At that very second, a flame of pain lashed across my palm. I was thrown back, tossed like a chip of wood. I hit the cave wall with such force that my teeth clattered, and a crunch ran down my spine as if someone had played a sharp chord on it.

Before I could recover from the blow, the head of the Thieves' Guild squeezed into the niche. In the flickering light, his eyes glinted dangerously—not with anger, no, but rather... understanding. He felt it. He sensed that his Mistress was clearly displeased with me. The Echo, touching both him and me, made this abundantly clear. Yet he said nothing. He just grimaced for a moment, as if inhaling something sharp, and then his face smoothed out. A calm, almost serene expression, like a monk in a trance. Taking another step, he knelt down and, without hesitation, pressed his forehead to the altar.

I hoped he wouldn't receive an order to finish off a disobedient toy like me. Though... why kill me? I was useful. From the Echo's perspective, perhaps impertinent, but still an effectively functioning tool. Two forgotten altars found in such a short time—that was no small feat. I should have been rewarded for this, not thrown against a wall!

...Speaking of rewards. There should have been one, right? At least something?

There was.

Here it was—Shadow Theater.

A spell that allowed creating moving shadows on the wall. Like those shown to children at bedtime, forming rabbits and birds with fingers—just a bit more complex. You could give the shadows the appearance of form, movement, even a hint of a plot. Absolute rubbish, only good for entertaining kids in a tavern for a mug of milk.

'Unfair!' I wanted to shout. I almost suffocated breaking my way in here, nearly turned into mincemeat from the Echo's pressure, and for all that effort, this was what I got?

Sighing heavily, I tried to let go of my anger. It wouldn't help now. I knew the gods of the local Pantheon weren't inclined to generosity. With rare exceptions, like, perhaps, Ishii. In the Last Cycle, I read hundreds of legends, rumors, and myths about each of them, so my opinion of these entities was well-formed.

Calm. Calmer still. It was my own fault. No point in playing Prometheus and defying the Echo. If I had agreed right away, I would've surely gotten something far more useful. But now it was too late.

Although... inside me lived a strange, stubborn joy. I might have lost, but I didn't give up immediately. I tried. I held on, at least for a while.

For the locals, the will of the gods was sacred, but I came from a completely different world—a world where people had at least the illusion of freedom of choice...