Solo Strategy

Two hours before dawn, a knock on the front door woke me up. It turned out to be Katashi returning from Sun City.

Letting the Japanese in, I greeted him with feigned cheerfulness:

"Ave! Are you going straight to bed or would you like some tea first?"

"Good night," the young blacksmith nodded. "I won't refuse tea, but I'll brew it myself."

"How was the journey? How's Sun City?" I bombarded Katashi with questions as we walked into the courtyard, then added with even more interest, "Did you get an Achievement for a big deal?" It seemed appropriate to maintain his impression of my preferences.

"The road was calm," he replied, heating the water. "Sun City is beautiful. Very clean. Perfect order in the streets. People are full of inner dignity." Then he unexpectedly added something completely contrary, "But I didn't like it. Oppressive atmosphere. It reminded me too much of my homeland in its less favorable aspects."

"And the Achievement?" I pressed, projecting a visualization above my palm. "I got a Diamond one for the deal."

"Yes, I got Diamond too," the future God of Labor nodded with dignity.

"So, you managed to get a good price," I said, rubbing my hands with satisfaction, hoping I wasn't overacting.

"Ten gold per stone," the Japanese agreed and added, "Though twenty-seven stones were rejected. After inspecting the rejects, I agreed with their decision."

"Not all my stones were taken either," I waved it off. "But it seems you're a better negotiator than I am, as I only managed to get nine and a half gold per stone." Then, sighing, I added, "It's a pity we can't do this often. If we bring the same amount again, we won't get more than five gold per stone. We need to wait until these are sold and try again in about six months. Although, there's an option to gather stones and sell them in small batches in other cities, but I think that would take at least a month."

"As I understand it, you wanted to keep that hoard as an untouchable reserve," said Katashi. "Let it remain so."

"I'll probably be busy all day tomorrow," I said after the Japanese brewed tea and poured it into mugs. "Guild business," I lied without batting an eye. "There's a sect called Righteous Elevation. And there are some suspicions that they are engaged in illegal activities. But only suspicions. For some reason, I've caught their attention, and they reached out to me, offering to talk."

"Need any help?" Katashi tensed, glancing at his hammer.

"Thanks, but the Guild will be covering me, and outside interference might be unnecessary."

The Japanese was too straightforward and could make a mess of things, so it was better he stayed out of it. For now. Later, when I learned more about the sect, and if they really were hastening the Invasion, then I would, without any hesitation, try to bring the Shards into it.

"You made it sound like this 'talk' could turn into trouble," the future God of Labor said calmly.

"Anything's possible," I admitted. "But as I said, I'll have support, not just from my Guild, but also from the Alchemists and even the Paladins." I knew I was overgeneralizing, but Katashi didn't need the details yet. "And maybe there won't be any talk at all," I added, spreading my hands casually.

"Two Great Guilds, paladins," the Japanese shook his head. "What kind of sect is this?"

Taking advantage of his question, I told Katashi about the Righteous Elevation Sect. Of course, not everything, but I did stir up some tension unrelated to the Invasion. At the end of the story, I mentioned my encounter with Reygyana in the Wicked Woods. Again, I didn't tell everything, but I did share some of my thoughts.

Why did I do that? Why share all this with Katashi? The answer was simple: if anything happened to me, I wanted the future God of Labor to have more information. The young smith was smart and knew how to connect facts, so maybe this information would help him figure things out down the road.

"I'll repeat: I don't need help." Noticing that the Japanese kept glancing at his hammer after my story, I spoke more forcefully. "Treat this as a police operation—outside interference could mess things up."

As far as I remembered, people in Japan had a lot of respect for law enforcement, and I hoped the young smith would refrain from being too curious.

While Katashi sat there pondering and sipping his tea, I went upstairs to the bedroom, took the scroll I'd gotten from the Trade League, and returned to the courtyard.

"You've got a day off from the Fire Forge tomorrow," I said, sitting across from the future God of Labor. "I suggest you do a sweep of the markets and buy materials for the final version of the glider. My help probably won't be needed. And judging by the price you got for the stones in Sun City, you drive a harder bargain than I do." With that, I handed Katashi the scroll.

"What's this?" the Japanese man asked, accepting the parchment.

"A Trade League promissory note," I replied, and then explained, "In Deytran—or in any city of Pentapolis—it'll be accepted with no questions."

Unrolling the scroll, the young smith checked the sum written and nodded in satisfaction.

"We managed to earn more than we need for materials for the glider," I said, rinsing my mug at the fountain. "But still, it's better if you haggle the prices for materials down as much as possible. Besides the glider itself, we'll need to commission a case for it too." And I immediately elaborated, "A spatial artifact—and those are expensive to make. I'll take care of that myself, or rather, I'll find the right craftsman."

"As you wish," Katashi nodded. "As for the prices, I'll bring them down as soon as I can."

"Alright," I said, straightening up and stretching. "I've got a tough day ahead, so I'm off to sleep."

"I'll still sit a while." The future God of Labor brewed more tea, thoughtful. "I think in the final version of the glider, we can make the wing a meter longer. Need to calculate that."

"You know best," I agreed and, leaving the Japanese alone, headed up to the bedroom.

If it weren't for breathing exercises and meditation techniques, I probably wouldn't have slept at all—too many thoughts were swirling in my head. Fortunately, thanks to relaxing breathing, I still managed to get about three hours of sleep.

In the morning, my head felt foggy, but washing my face with cold water and then doing an intense warm-up quickly brought me back to my senses.

The former captain of the Trade League greeted me in his usual silent manner and didn't say a word beyond the formal greeting until our boat had left the bay.

"You wanted to learn a couple more air spells," Eddart said when the yacht-tender stopped far from the fishing boats. "I suggest we focus on that today. I think it would be best."

"As you say, trainer," I shrugged.

Indeed, at that moment, it seemed more useful to learn something new.

"Let's start with the Sound Barrier, or as it's often called, the Dome of Silence," the Air Mage said, removing the sail and sitting across from me. "For those who study Wind Sense, this spell comes fairly easily. You already know how to sense air currents around you. The Barrier works by densifying these currents and creating a special air ripple that muffles sounds within the spell's sphere."

That theory, thanks to the memory of the future, I knew perfectly well—possibly even better than the former captain himself—since I had heard Arien explaining it. True, it was in the Last Cycle, but I had heard it. Nevertheless, I didn't interrupt Eddart and listened to his lengthy introductory lecture.

Since I was already showing phenomenal learning speed by local standards, I deliberately downplayed my progress in this training session. In the Last Cycle, I didn't learn this spell, relying on the Shadow of Silence—a skill quite similar to the Sound Barrier in principle. However, the Shadow of Silence had strict limitations: it could only be used while in the shadows, such as under a canopy or dense tree cover. The Barrier, on the other hand, was universal, not dependent on the environment, and thus seemed far more practical.

The former captain of the Trade League was right: thanks to my understanding of Wind Sense, the initial stage of the Dome of Silence—creating a thin air sphere—came quite easily to me. Although the sphere I made consisted of continuously moving air currents, which was far from ideal, Eddart said it was significant progress for a first session.

Around two in the afternoon, the Air mage stopped the training.

"As you requested, I accepted the stranger's offer," he said, producing a vial of murky liquid.

"Can you tell me more?" I asked, leaning forward involuntarily.

Eddart's account, as always, was extremely concise. He couldn't identify the stranger. The person wore plain, unremarkable clothes and hid their face under a skillful disguise enhanced with Illusion magic. The former captain couldn't even say for sure whether it was a man or a woman. He didn't dare try any recognition spells for fear of scaring the stranger away.

The offer this stranger made was well thought out, straightforward, and at the same time elegant. According to the scenario, Eddart, supposedly dissatisfied with my progress, was to suggest that I use the Bad Student's Potion, explaining that it would help him convey the subtle nuances of the technique more easily.

At first glance, it seemed like a routine practice: if I had indeed struggled with mastering Wind Sense, such an approach wouldn't have raised any suspicions. In the local culture, reverence and obedience to a teacher were ingrained from birth, and accepting any potion from their hands was considered natural. For me, given my background as an athlete, the scenario didn't seem absurd either. I was used to trusting coaches and doctors.

After the potion was supposed to take effect, Eddart would spend another hour with me, then praise my "significant progress" and send me off to relax. And not just anywhere, but specifically to "relieve the tension" supposedly hindering my full immersion in meditation. This meant a visit to a brothel. And not just any establishment, but a specific one, to a woman named in advance.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

In reality, this was a rather sophisticated and meticulously crafted plan. It allowed Eddart, if necessary, to easily justify himself by citing his eccentric care for my training. Such a story wouldn't harm his reputation; on the contrary, it would reinforce his image as a strange but gifted and unpredictable master.

Nevertheless, such an approach by the mysterious stranger rather reassured me. Since he was so concerned about providing Eddart with a convenient defense and an opportunity to explain "his motives" the next day, it was clear they weren't planning to kill me. Of course, there was another possibility: that it was all just a facade, preparation to cover their tracks, or insurance in case the potion didn't work fully. I couldn't just dismiss these thoughts—unpleasant, but necessary. And although I seemed well-prepared for a possible kidnapping, doubts lingered in my mind.

Having finished speaking, the former captain of the Trade League opened the vial and leaned over to pour its contents overboard.

"Wait," I stopped him. "Whatever they say about you, I know you value your word." The Air Mage nodded in agreement after a brief pause. "You agreed to a stranger's offer, which required you to give me the Bad Student's Potion. So, follow through on your promise—that way, you won't break your word. Don't worry, it won't harm me."

To confirm my words, I took out a vial of antidote.

"This potion neutralizes the effect of the Bad Student but retains the external symptoms: dilated pupils, slightly slowed reaction, and overly smooth movements," I said, then drank the antidote in one gulp and extended my hand.

After receiving the potion from Eddart, I waited the required five minutes, as instructed by the master alchemist, and then consumed this "mixture" as well.

"As you can see, I haven't lost myself and can speak and think clearly," I said, though my speech sounded somewhat slow and drawn out. "Now, repeat the instructions you were supposed to give me."

For about three minutes, Eddart watched me closely, and only then did he seem to relax a bit. It was clear that the former captain of the Trade League was uneasy about the whole situation. And to be honest, I was grateful to him that, when faced with a choice between profit tied to harming his temporary student and holding to his principles, he had chosen the latter.

In addition to what was mentioned earlier, the Air Mage clarified the details: the name of the establishment I was to visit after training, as well as the name of the lady he was supposedly to recommend to me as a skilled "stress relief" expert. Although there was another detail Eddart had initially omitted. If the named woman was unavailable—either busy or absent—I was to agree to a substitute. A curious clarification. It further emphasized the stranger's, or whoever directed him, attention to every detail. Otherwise, Eddart would always have had a convenient excuse: "I sent you to a specific lady, and any trouble you encountered was only because she wasn't there." Such foresight almost certainly indicated that the aim was not to kidnap me, let alone kill me. It seemed they simply wanted to talk, or rather, interrogate me.

We spent another hour at sea. Following his promise to the stranger, the former captain of the Trade League tried to continue my training. His voice was restrained, yet the tension in it was palpable; each word seemed pre-measured to avoid saying too much. His movements showed a stiffness uncharacteristic of someone used to carrying himself with confidence, even arrogance. It was as if he was fulfilling his duty as a teacher while simultaneously shielding me from potentially ambiguous instructions.

Due to the antidote I had taken, there was no "breakthrough." However, even the residual effects of the Bad Student's Potion were enough to make meditative practices easier than usual. All the while, a thought kept haunting me that Eddart's tense demeanor only confirmed he didn't fully believe it was right to let me talk him into this venture.

As the yacht-tender glided towards the fishing port, the former captain and I remained silent. Each of us was lost in our own thoughts, and this silence served as a cover: to an observer, it seemed as if a person under the influence of the Bad Student's Potion was incapable of coherent conversation. This was deliberate—to avoid arousing any suspicion.

When the boat docked at the pier, Eddart mechanically repeated the instructions, also clarifying the location of the establishment I needed to visit. Only then did we part ways: the Air mage headed to his home, visibly restraining the urge to look back, and I strode toward the trade port.

My steps were different from the usual. It felt as if the strength in my body had weakened by three ranks: my movements became overly smooth, almost sluggish. With an effort of will, I could have dispelled this effect, but I chose not to; instead, I displayed exactly the signs expected of someone under the influence of the Bad Student's Potion. Dilated pupils, measured steps, subdued reactions—all appeared natural and convincing, and only I knew that beneath this facade lay complete clarity of mind.

At this stage, I was supposed to be secretly accompanied by mercenaries from the Assassins' Guild already. But I couldn't spot them, which was quite understandable. Professionals who had surpassed the Second Wall were expected to blend seamlessly into the crowd. And the noisy, diverse throng of Deytran only made their task easier.

Walking among the shouts of merchants and the creaking of carts, I found myself thinking unpleasant thoughts. The mysterious stranger who had "bribed" my temporary trainer had set a meeting in a brothel. In the port district, there were plenty of such places, most catering to common sailors, relieving their fatigue and anger with cheap wine and "affection" costing a couple of silvers. I saw no danger in this—my level of strength had long outgrown simple tavern brawls. But the atmosphere of such places always caused me almost physical repulsion. A nauseating mix of vulgarity, cloying playfulness, and weary smiles that concealed mundanity, corruption, and a deep-seated weariness of everything, including life itself.

Even the name of the brothel I was heading to didn't add to its appeal: the "Stiff Mast." For an establishment of this kind, the name was fitting, even catchy, but its blatant straightforwardness irritated me a bit. They could have chosen something less ambiguous.

However, my fears were unfounded. The place turned out not to be a den for sailors but rather a house of pleasure for a more distinguished clientele. A three-story, well-maintained building stood on the border between the port quarters and the trade zone. At the door, a couple of Wootz mercenaries were lounging—not cheap thugs, but men who inspired trust with their posture and calm confidence. Inside, the air was clean, lightly scented with subtle fragrances, and soft music played in the main hall. Two girls with refined faces plucked the strings of harps, creating an atmosphere of salon-like elegance rather than cheap debauchery.

Carved chairs with high backs lined the walls, most of them currently unoccupied. But five were taken by girls who were charming and demure, dressed revealingly yet tastefully, without vulgarity or excessive exposure. Their postures, hands neatly folded on their laps, and the expectant courtesy in their gaze made them look more like graduates of a ladies' academy than mistresses of carnal pleasures.

As I passed by the girls, I noted that they were all at Bronze rank, which again demonstrated the respectable level of the establishment. Without showing any reaction and looking straight ahead, I approached the counter where a middle-aged woman sat. Her face was heavily made up, and her lips were painted bright red. Before she could greet me, I said:

"I need Shilota Moonlight." My voice sounded as if I had been drinking for seven days straight and then taken a sedative on top of it.

The lady behind the counter glanced at me, her gaze lingering a bit on the Great Guild Sheriff's badge. Her reaction was hidden behind the thick layer of makeup, but her eyes looked too intently, appraisingly.

"Young master," she said, rising from her seat, "to my great regret, Shilota Moonlight is not working today."

What a "surprise"! This was pretty much what I had expected. And now they would offer me a substitute, if my assumptions were correct.

"Sir, we have a newcomer who shows talents no less than Shilota's." Well, there it was... "Dayrana, come here."

The lady waved her hand, calling over not one of the girls sitting on the chairs, but another who had been standing behind a massive column. Dayrana looked fresh, neat, and even somewhat charming. Looking at her, you'd never think of her profession. Only her cold, snakelike gaze betrayed a detached and selfish nature, a gaze that clashed with her childishly chubby cheeks. Despite her youthful appearance, I guessed she was closer to thirty, but this impression was solely due to her eyes.

"Master, this is Dayrana Warm Tide," the lady at the counter introduced the approaching girl. "I assure you, she will be a worthy replacement for Shilota. Moreover, Dayrana has a Steel rank, so you can allow yourself a bit more than with the other girls."

"Agreed," I replied curtly, as instructed by the former captain of the Trade League.

The girl, who had been standing three steps away, smoothly "flowed" to my side the moment she heard my word and gently yet firmly took me by the elbow.

"Master," she purred in a sultry voice, "please follow me. I will soothe you with exquisite tea and help lift the burden of your bad mood."

Obediently walking after Dayrana, I struggled to resist the urge to look around, habitually noting potential ambush spots and escape routes. After climbing to the third floor, we walked down a long corridor to the farthest door.

"Master," the girl opened the door and, bending in a half-bow, gestured for me to enter.

The room I stepped into was clean, tidy, and even had a touch of ostentatious luxury. A huge double bed with silk drapery. A round table and two carved chairs by the window. On the table—a teapot, from whose spout light steam rose.

"Please sit, master," the courtesan said, pointing to one of the chairs.

Having watched closely how I carried out her instruction—silently and obediently—the girl gave the faintest smile.

"What should I call you, master?" Dayrana asked, placing a mug in front of me.

"Crow," I replied tersely, continuing to look straight ahead.

"Master," she said again. Why did she even ask what to call me if she kept saying "master"? "Please, drink the tea," the courtesan said, pouring me a full cup.

Following her instruction, I raised the mug to my lips and drank its contents in slow sips, then remained seated with the empty mug in my hands, still looking straight ahead.

"I hope you enjoyed the drink, master." Since this wasn't a direct question, I remained silent. "Why are you sitting there with the cup in your hands?" the girl with cold eyes asked, feigning surprise. "Put it on the table."

I obediently followed her request, pretending to be a biorobot.

Dayrana, meanwhile, slowly finished her tea, studying me closely. It seemed to me that with each passing second, the courtesan relaxed more and more. Her movements became less formal, more at ease, and the barely noticeable wrinkles at the corners of her eyes smoothed out.

Could it be that this girl, quite possibly just playing the role of a courtesan, belonged to the Righteous Elevation sect? She was clearly intelligent, cold-blooded, and her gaze betrayed a calculating vixen who would easily trample others for her own benefit.

But it seemed rather crude. Too primitive for an organization that had stayed in the shadows for so long. Most likely, she was a mercenary who would play her part, whatever it entailed, and vanish without a trace. Or rather, try to vanish—she had no idea that at least a few professional killers were watching me and would certainly intercept her as soon as she finished playing her role.

Did I feel sorry for her? After all, if she resisted, she might accidentally get killed. No, I didn't. She was the one who got herself into a game whose depth she didn't even suspect.

"Master," she said in a playfully cheerful tone, sitting on the edge of the bed, "come sit closer to me," and she patted the spot next to her.

I got up from the chair and, moving like a sleepwalker, sat where she indicated.

"Master, take off your belt; it's clearly in your way. You can just throw it on the floor." The courtesan gave her orders with growing confidence. "That's it, good. Now, don't be shy, master, put your hand on my knee."

My hand lay on the girl's knee like a cold fish; I still didn't look at her, staring instead at a point straight ahead.

"It's warm in here, master; you'll be more comfortable if you take off your shirt."

I didn't react to that, since it wasn't an order—just "more comfortable"—and under the potion, such trifles weren't supposed to concern me. For a moment, the courtesan seemed to hesitate, then stepped back and said more firmly:

"Master, take off your shirt." Now, I obeyed. "Stand up, hang your shirt on the back of the chair. Now take off your shoes, place them by the bed, take off your pants, and hang them with the shirt. Good, master." This time, her "master" sounded especially insincere. "Now turn around. Again."

The girl with cold eyes rose from her seat and circled me, scrutinizing closely. No, my nudity, covered only by underwear, didn't attract her. She seemed to be looking for something on my body. Perhaps some tracking artifacts?

Satisfied with her inspection, the courtesan smiled predatorily, casting a greedy glance at the purse attached to my belt lying on the floor. Was she really going to rob me? Was she that unprofessional?

But no, overcoming the greed that flickered in her eyes, Dayrana seated me back on the bed and approached the door. She cracked it open, reached into the corridor, and snapped her fingers in a peculiar rhythm.

Half a minute later, someone approached the slightly open door, and the courtesan whispered to the person I couldn't see from where I sat:

"I've checked everything. All symptoms of the Bad Student's Potion are present. Commands are obeyed willingly. No reaction to provocations. Heartbeat is steady. No male responses to the female body. Just as you described."

"Good," a quiet male voice came from behind the door, "the next room is empty, go in there and stay until I call you."

"As you command," the courtesan nodded meekly, turned to me, and added, "Crow, obey all the orders of the one who enters the room now." Having said that, she slipped out the door—too hastily, it seemed to me.