Knights of Tezoth

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Lester Vargas

The city was fast asleep. Not a soul was seen or heard anywhere around, only the chirping of crickets and the hum of the cool capital wind.

With a completely silent step, one that would be the envy of both a leopard and a jungle cat, a large dark silhouette crept up to the narrow window of the basement floor of a nearby building. His hand lay on the glass and easily opened it. It led to the cellar and in its normal state was always locked tight, but not this time. The intruder, of course, knew this perfectly well, for it was he who earlier in the day had unnoticeably slid the bolt back from the inside and, seemingly sloppily, covered it with the edge of a transparent bottle of vinegar, deliberately positioning it so that the refracted image of the bolt shining through it would create the illusion of its unchanged state, and thereby allow the gaze of a random person gliding over this installation not to catch on an intuitively unfamiliar contrast.

Sucking in his stomach, the figure dove into the window, landing on his hands, and with a deft somersault returned to a vertical position. Locking the window with the bolt and carefully dusting off his palms, Lester Vargas — and it was, of course, him — swept his eyes over the familiar surroundings of cabinets, tables, jars of preserves, boxes, and baskets, clockwise, and stopped them on a door in the dark corner of the room, where, as he knew perfectly well, the treasure he sought lay.

Taking a couple of steps toward it, he addressed the darkness:

"Well, what are you waiting for, come on out already."

"Meow!" — from the blackness appeared a kitten of the same color, on whose whiskers the starlight filtering in through the cellar window shimmered. He loved this room and always stayed in it for the night.

"I see everything's stable with you, isn't it?" — the burglar dropped to one knee and scratched the animal behind the ear. It purred, rubbed against his palms, and began licking them. Apparently, with its superhuman sense, it could still smell the scent of tonight's dinner.

For some reason, animals got along well with Vargas, and he liked them too.

"Ha! Today's your lucky day — I'm here, so your wish will come true. I get my interest, you get your benefit, what could be better?"

After petting the little one for another minute, he picks it up and approaches the dark door.

"Come on, give me a hand," he brings the cat to the door, which fills with anxiety and begins scratching at it. "Give it some voice, some voice."

"Meeeeow! Meeeeow! Meow!" — it gives it, quite heartily.

"Good boy," with the cat in one hand, Lester opens the door with the other and steps into the cold storage room. Setting the rascal down on the floor, he approaches the hooks hanging from the ceiling. His eyes behold a whole half of a plump hazel grouse — perhaps half-eaten and now cold, but beautifully prepared the previous evening. Selecting a huge fillet piece for himself, he tosses the remaining treat to the impatiently fidgeting cat on the floor. It sinks its teeth into the meat and chomps so greedily that it crackles behind its ears.

"Bon appétit," he begins himself.

Finishing the meal first, he sighs with satisfaction.

"Alright, don't be bored, and sweet dreams to you."

Returning to the main cellar room, he approaches one of the boxes, lifts the lid, and strikes it hard a couple of times, then moves to the other door — the one leading to the corridor at the end of which the cellar was located. He stands to the side of it on the hinge side and counts the seconds. Footsteps sound from the corridor, and light flickers through the door cracks.

"Who's there?" — a grumbling voice of an elderly woman.

The scrape of a key in the lock, a few more moments, and the door opens. From behind the door, a fragment of the figure of the cook who entered could be discerned, squinting shortsightedly and illuminating the surroundings with a lantern.

Of course, Lester in his position was in no danger from his little prank; he could have calmly strolled out of here right in front of her, but he didn't want to scare the good woman into a heart attack with his appearance, and besides, where would the sport be in that?

Finally, the cook noticed the slightly open door to the meat section and resolutely headed there.

"Like taking candy from a baby," the knight smiled half-mouthed, and silently leaving his hiding spot, walked right behind her back toward the exit, not forgetting to grab a toothpick from a glass along the way.

Picking the fibers of the grouse stuck between his teeth, he had walked about halfway down the corridor when curses and meowing erupted from the cellar left behind. He knew perfectly well that the cook could do nothing to the clever and nimble kitten, and from the shouts and sounds of struggle he understood that it had jumped onto a cabinet and was merrily frolicking across the furniture, rejoicing both in its stuffed belly and the commotion that had broken out.

At the other end of the corridor, leading to a spiral staircase, an uneven flame also flickered.

"Right on time," Lester had just reached a wooden beam near the corridor wall, and without stopping his teeth-cleaning, stood behind it.

The light drew closer and closer until finally Hans — one of the local guards — came into view. Barely moving his legs, he looked quite flushed, and stared only straight ahead with his murky gaze. He reeked noticeably of alcohol.

Waiting until the man passed him, nearly grazing the robber's belly with his elbow, Lester let him get five steps away, stepped out from behind the beam, and without looking back continued his path toward the corridor's exit.

Had the guard not been tipsy — and he was not so on every one of his night watches — he would certainly have noticed him. How had he managed to time this exact moment?

The ration served in the mess hall was cyclical, and Vargas knew what today's would be — not as hearty as usual, and so he understood perfectly that by night he would be somewhat hungry. Therefore, he had beforehand taken care to ask the cook to prepare a solid portion of her signature corned beef. Sitting at the table, he ate it so deliciously and praised it so much that he caught the hungry glances of the local soldiers, among whom was Hans.

"Huh?" he blinked, pretending to have only just noticed with surprise. "Why are you all just standing there, boys. Dig in, there's enough for everyone!"

The guards smiled and happily set upon the dish.

He also knew that Hans always kept a well-hidden bottle or two or three of wine, or beer, or even something stronger in his nightstand, which he occasionally uncorked during his particular night watches — and today happened to be his shift. And having filled up on corned beef, he would certainly grow thirsty. Therefore, his appearance here in such a state was completely predictable.

Thorough preparation, masterful skill, and plans within plans within plans. That was how Lester Vargas preferred to operate throughout life — Knight of Dawn Steel, in the service of Canamia and personally of Deus Mariarnelia.

Having finished the buffet raid operation, he rose from the cellar and calmly stepped outside, greedily inhaling the fresh night air and fixing his gaze on the night sky strewn with bright stars. It always seemed strange to him — some constellations and individual stars he recognized easily, while others seemed completely alien to him. He also had a favorite star, which for some reason always drew his gaze.

Relaxedly observing them, he slowly walked down the street, moving away from the operation site, and wandered for a long time before returning to his abode and falling into a sweet sleep.

***

He first became aware that he was breathing and alive upon waking up in a grove at the edge of a forest, in complete tranquility. At some distance, spires and other handiworks of men were visible, and all around — endless meadows, here and there modestly dotted with houses.

He wore simple and unremarkable, but quality-looking clothing, and a bag with various small items like a Swiss army knife, simple provisions, a pack of cigarettes, a flask — from which emanated the smell of the strongest hooch — and, for some reason, a huge portrait of a barely dressed woman with enormous melons, which somehow fit into the small bag, ignoring all laws of physics. Even more incomprehensibly, a ski mask was doing something in there.

"I don't understand anything," he scratched the back of his head.

Sitting on the grass, taking out a cigarette and working it between his fingers, he clearly realized that he had no desire to smoke them, and therefore they probably weren't his. Sniffing the flask, he grimaced — he shuddered from the harshness. The presumed food consisted of compressed, apparently freeze-dried, briquettes of a brownish-grayish substance. Biting into them, he realized their incredible hardness, which nearly cost him a couple of teeth. Twirling the mask in his hands, and even trying it on, he instantly felt his face break out in sweat and tore it off sharply. Playing with the knife, he saw nothing interesting, but noticed a corkscrew and a bottle opener on it. Finally, unfolding the portrait, he examined it appraisingly for a long time. The woman was remarkably beautiful, though something incomprehensible, perhaps even sinister, emanated from her.

"What was I doing the day before?" wiping the sweat from his forehead, he noticed a mark on his arm visible from under the rolled-up sleeve of his kaftan. A rash, or what?

Having examined that area — for which he even had to take off the kaftan, since the sleeve wouldn't roll up any further — he discovered a tattoo on his shoulder.

It depicted something strange, quite crudely drawn. Not quite a rat, not quite a wolf, not quite an anteater, or rather their head, from which grew upward a cone-like structure with a rounded base, but not just with two side faces, but also with a central one in the middle. It was framed in a vague smeared pattern of diamonds and more, and below were drawn... Hard to determine, but it looked like — as if two little paws, one holding a knife, the other a pistol, as if drawn by a child.

"What nonsense."

Even lower was a short fragment of unreadable script, however, in it, as it seemed to him, he discerned words. They read: "DVD ROYENTAL 09.05.778." How he imagined that there was something resembling familiar letters in this ornament, he did not understand.

Catching fragmentary flashbacks of either work colleagues or classmates with blurred faces, gathering his thoughts and weighing the options, Lester Vargas — though this he remembered exactly — came to the conclusion that he had apparently participated with them in a very heavy drinking session on a nature trip, during which he fell asleep and they decided to prank him by leaving him who knows where. This perfectly explained why he didn't remember yesterday, and seemingly the day before that too, and the day before that.

With disgust, disposing of the excess junk, keeping for himself only the knife and the portrait — he really liked the picture — he got up and headed toward the spires. Obviously, in such a situation, that was his best chance.

Upon arriving in the city, he observed the lives of its inhabitants, their cares and problems, listened to random conversations hardly meant for his personal ears, felt someone's fates. He didn't try to do this consciously, just picked things up here and there along the way.

Finally, realizing he had gleaned much, yet nothing jogged his memory, and with sunset approaching soon enough, he found shelter and spent the night there.

All the subsequent time he spent studying the city and working hard at a miraculously available position as a handyman, for which he was paid little, but enough money to cover his temporary life and keep him fed and housed.

Time passed, long or short. One day he was passing by a small shop, from inside of which he heard a pained cry. Without thinking long, he burst in like an elephant in a china shop, and found himself leaning over a suffering old man. The old fellow, looking to be in his nineties, was bald, thick-bearded, wrinkled, and clutching his ribs with a face full of agony.

"I'll call for help right away," Vargas promised, but the old man interrupted him. "What... the hell... help? Were you... born yesterday? Who's going to... help me? And do you know how much that... costs?" the pensioner barely squeezed out, rolling his bloodshot eyes and gasping for air.

Vargas shook his head.

"No, I don't. How much?" the old man stated the sum, and Lester was floored.

"Let go... I'll come around soon," Lester let go, but the old man didn't look at all like he'd keep his word. This probably wasn't his first episode, and he himself thought so too, but it was obvious that without proper care he'd pass on to the next world.

Scanning the shop revealed this was a jewelry and trinket store. Dust lay on many of the items, and empty spots were almost nonexistent. Considering the low foot traffic on this street, it was clear the goods here weren't in high demand. Now the old man's stinginess was understandable — if he went to a doctor, he'd have to sell everything for a pittance and lose the last thing that kept him in this world.

"Come to rob me, have you?!" the old man hissed, immediately catching a new spasm.

Vargas didn't comment. Instead, he laid the owner's head more comfortably and rolled up his sleeves:

"Well then, the old-fashioned way. Rest for now, and I'll try to whip something up."

Ignoring the grumbling, Vargas bustled about the old man's dwelling, found various herbs, water, and vessels. All of this he applied to the most traditional of old-man decoctions to the best of his ability — not from memory, but more by intuition. Wild garlic infusion, a mix of chamomile and oak bark, immortelle extract.

Having fussed over the old geezer all the way until night, he noted that not a single customer had set foot in the shop all day.

***

"Right here, here!" the old man cursed at Lester's attempts to craft a pendant. "You didn't solder it! Over there — you didn't etch it enough!"

It seemed the old man was about to explode.

"Oh, give it a rest! I'm trying, I haven't had that much practice!"

"You dare talk back to me!" the cane struck Vargas's back. "You listen and learn, you fool!"

"What's the rush, when's our deadline?" the apprentice tried to reason.

"That's none of your business! If you don't etch enough now, you'll get a crooked grain later; if you don't melt enough here, you'll have to redo it! And then there are ten more clients after that! We're in the capital! Don't you understand that?" there were notes of disappointment in the old man's voice.

"Fine, I get it, I get it!" Lester snapped back, and tried to finish the etching to quickly move on to the melting. "You could at least thank me for the clientele..."

Having successfully survived the attack, the old coot reluctantly acquired a new employee for his shop — every day passing by this road, Vargas checked whether the old man had kicked the bucket. Each time the old man grumbled and demanded to be left alone, but these cries fell on deaf ears. Gradually, the duration of visits increased — Vargas began to show interest in the trinkets and question him about the craft. With a haughtily pompous air, the old man answered the questions of the passing tourist, and although he tried not to show it, one could sense it did bring him some pleasure.

As a result of these events, one day the old man declared that he was tired of answering endless questions, and was not obliged to reveal the secrets of the craft to a dilettante who wasn't even familiar with the materials.

"He just keeps fishing and fishing, and then he'll blab to the competitors. If you're so curious, get behind the workbench or the counter. If not, get the hell out," he waved his finger toward the door.

"Fine by me! This business has caught my interest!" to the old man's surprise, Lester agreed.

Though the old fellow had said it casually, as a figure of speech, pride and bile wouldn't let him back down, and so this chapter began.

The reason for the shop's poverty soon became fully clear — it wasn't just the foot traffic, but first and foremost the owner's cantankerous and aggressive character. More than once or twice, Vargas watched people, upon reaching the shop, cross to the other side of the street, quickening their pace. He didn't like this — despite everything, the goods in the shop were quality, and the prices not all that high, yet potential customers went to less favorable places.

Armed with his most charming smile, the newly minted employee began beckoning people right on the street. Almost everyone passed by, but those few who did show interest, he courted like never before, showering them with compliments, cracking witty jokes, and telling them about each item with interest. To their surprise, customers left in high spirits.

Word spread that in that once-unfriendly shop, in place of the cantankerous old man, such a pleasant salesman had appeared, and business picked up.

…

"What about this?" — Crap! Redo!

…

"This?" — A bit better, but crooked here. This is all lopsided! Redo! The client will never take that!

…

"Like this?.."

"..." the wrinkled man was silent for a long time. "It'll pass for beer."

"Hold on, hold on," Vargas's hands jumped toward the tools while the words settled in his head. "...What do you mean, pass? For the client?"

"The hell with the client! If you're ready to redo it, go ahead. I've got all day," the old man piled on the absurdity, for it was the fourth hour of the night.

"I think it'll pass for the client. We tried very hard," Lester tucked his head into his shoulders, but no blow came.

Glancing at the old man, he saw him staring intently into his eyes.

"And?" the old man creaked.

"I'm absolutely sure it'll suit him. I think this particular client isn't much of a connoisseur of jewelry; he would have accepted something of lesser quality too. He just wanted it to look good, and it'll fit his image perfectly. And if anything, I'll spin some tale about how unique a piece it is, or give him a symbolic discount. And he'll be glad he came in here. Right?"

The old man hunches over and stares at his face for a long time.

"Hm," he finally creaks again, then mutters aside, assuming it can't be heard, but to Vargas's sharpest hearing, of course, it was perfectly audible. "Maybe there's some potential in this good-for-nothing after all..." he returns his aged eyes to the younger face. "Heh. Well, try it, try it, boy. If it doesn't work out — blame yourself. I'll fine you so hard you won't know what hit you."

***

"Get moving for materials!" the old man shouted.

"Yes, sir!" Vargas reported, and ran off to the shops — popped into one, dashed into another. It was quite hot today, people were behaving sleepily and lazily, and only the jewelry specialist was bustling around like crazy.

Having finished with the necessary, he finally stopped to catch his breath.

A procession was moving along one of the central streets. Apparently, a capital official or someone else important enough was riding in a harnessed carriage on state business. The little people gawked at the affair, parting to the sides and scratching their heads.

"Oh, you bastard! You goat! What do you think you're doing!" a woman's cry rang out, cutting through eardrums until ears rang.

Lester flinched at the sound, people began whispering. It wasn't very clear what was happening, but it seemed some fellow had gotten handsy with another woman, perhaps even accidentally in such a crowd.

"You psycho!" catching a hard slap, the man ran off, the woman kept wailing like she was being slaughtered. Somewhere nearby a child began to cry.

All this commotion greatly agitated the horses pulling the carriage; they reared up with foam at the mouth and bolted without looking where they were going.

Vargas sees that right in their path stood that same wailing little boy, unaware of the situation, behind whom the old woman with the scythe was already nearly standing. People: some froze rooted to the spot, others fled in panic in all directions. Dashing toward the boy, sharply, as if he were a special forces operative rather than a passing stranger from the street, at the very moment the horses had almost drawn level, he manages to shield the boy with his body.

The impact knocks the wind out of him, his vision turns bloody. The horses stumble, trampling his broken limbs with their hooves, but the little one remains unreachable to them. Barely managing to snatch out his jewelry work knife, Lester delivers several blind strikes, and to their mutual fortune, cuts the harness. The horses free themselves from the carriage and leave the accident site, raising clouds of dust. Part of the escort guard rushes after them, another part tries to stabilize the situation. His eyes darken, consciousness leaves its familiar bodily shell.

***

"Weapons, explosives, sorcery, forbidden substances?" frowned and blocked the path with his halberd a guard who, while not as huge as Lester, was still quite imposing, and whose armor added a frightening factor.

It was somewhat difficult to spread his arms, one of which hung in a sling while the other held a crutch, but somehow he managed — search away, he meant. The guard patted down the crippled man and reluctantly nodded:

"Follow me. And don't lag behind."

The last sentence seemed like mockery, but a pointless one — the guard kept stopping and waiting with an irritated sigh for Vargas to hobble up to him. Finally, they reached heavy double doors, in front of which a couple more bruisers were stationed.

The guard nodded to them, they nodded back and, in sync — clearly having rehearsed this many times during drills — opened the doors.

Inside was a vast, wealthy room, at the end of which stood a throne with a woman seated on it.

"That was an unpleasant incident," she says.

"It's nothing. The main thing is no one was hurt," some incomprehensible muscle memory prompts Lester to salute, but his hand gets stuck halfway in the sling.

"Bow your head! Do you even know who stands before you?!" the nearby guard hisses.

Vargas bows.

"Never mind," unclear, but possibly addressed more to the guard than to the newcomer. "Who are you in life?"

"Perhaps... a jeweler, Your Grace."

"Your Excellency!.." the guard hisses.

"Your Excellency," Lester corrects himself.

"A jeweler, is it?" the Excellency seems not to believe, then falls silent.

"A jeweler," Lester confirms. "Though not for long. Previously — a handyman at a construction site."

"Your treatment has been paid for, jeweler," says the Excellency. "Show me your craft sometime."

"Of course. Come to the shop on Green Street," Vargas states the formalities.

…

Silence hangs in the hall. The guard glances from him to the Excellency.

"I want to see how you work," adds the Excellency, examining the rivets on the ceiling beam. "Whether there are any particular nuances."

"Of course, Your Excellency. There are a sea of nuances, and if it pleases You, I will show them," Vargas didn't know what else to answer in this situation.

The guard pulled him outside.

That was a very strange event.

***

"So this is how we work and trade," Lester swept his hand over the modest assortment of their shop. "To the best of our ability."

"Modest," commented the Excellency. "And what next?"

"Here," he tried to step behind the workbench. His injuries had been somewhat mitigated; he'd removed the sling and lost the crutch, but still felt residual weakness.

"And how much longer will you keep up this charade and interfere with business?" the old man, standing nearby and completely not understanding the situation, frowned deeply. "So much time already lost while you were lounging around."

"We had a new delivery; it would help the business greatly if you checked the materials, master," nothing could be discerned on the guide's stony face, but a plea was clearly readable in his eyes.

"Hmph," snorting, the old man left.

"I had an order," Vargas rummages in a box, takes out a blank, picks up the work knife. "Here I need to trim the clay before firing it, to create an imitation of a precious stone. It's done like this: slash-slash-slash-slash."

His hands make several aggressive yet careful incisions per second, and the piece quickly acquires the desired shape.

"Did you serve somewhere?" the Excellency's question catches him off guard. "What else can you do?"

"Me? I don't think so. To be honest, I don't remember much. I always thought amnesia was a made-up thing, but there you go."

"Shell shock," the bored escort guard inserted his two cents in a low voice with the tone of a connoisseur.

"You oriented yourself quickly in an extreme situation. And those aren't the hands of a civilian. I'm interested in seeing you in action."

Not understanding what is wanted of him, Vargas silently nods.

"Defeat this one here, and it'll be clear whether you deserve my time," a lazy glance marks the guard.

"But Your Excellency..." the serviceman was taken aback.

"Give him a blade. Fight in the street."

"It shall be done," the soldier put on a haughty expression. "You, follow me."

"How did I get myself into this," Lester complies, understanding that no one is asking his opinion.

Upon stepping out into the fresh air, the guardsman frees a dagger from the sheath on his belt and tosses it to the ground.

"I don't have anything else. And you probably couldn't even lift a sword."

A few more fighters remaining on the street perk up and wander over:

"What's the commotion? A fight?"

"A demonstration," answers the soldier, while Vargas picks up the knife and blows the dust off it. He weighs it in his palm, deftly twirls it — the blade is impeccably polished and not dulled — clearly he never uses it, but keeps it in good condition.

He looks at his opponent — heavy armor, at the joints the plates overlap one another, chainmail beneath, a helmet on his head. Not a winning proposition at all, but a déjà vu visits him, and with it a strange, unfounded feeling of confidence that there's a chance. The helmet has no visor, but is quite bulky. Maybe if he gets into the blind spot?..

"Begin," sounds the voice of the Excellency.

The guard instantly breaks into a sprint to close the distance. Lester hesitates. In the micro-moment when the opponent's hand just begins to rise for a lightning strike, he notes that the chainmail at his armpit has worn through — frayed, or what, from endless standing at attention? Is that even possible with chainmail? The direction of the strike was quite readable — a diagonal from right to left.

Kicking sand into the guard's face, Vargas dives to the side, right under the raised arm, and delivers a series of thrusts into the vulnerable spot, piercing the loose material — quickly and cleanly, as if he had done this far more than once. The guard goes limp in his arms, and Lester lowers him to the ground.

"Nothing personal, friend. You're not the first, you won't be the last," some deep part of his subconscious forces him to utter these words with a sinister grin, and then cross himself — though he wasn't a believer. "One hundred eighty-two."

Blinking, he regains his perception of reality. Fellow soldiers and random passersby look at the scene in complete bewilderment.

"Ha... Well, I sure got lucky," Vargas scratches his head in confusion, wipes the dagger with a handkerchief, and returns it to the guard's sheath. "Thought I wouldn't survive the first exchange."

"You — get a medic," the Excellency tosses at one of the stunned soldiers. "And you — you'll do. You'll come into my service, and we'll see from there."

"But I'm..."

"You're wasting yourself here," with that, ending the conversation, she returns to the carriage.

"Just wonderful, blood on the doorstep of my shop," the bilious old man's voice behind him. "And who will be held responsible for this?"

"I'll clean it all up right away, master," Lester went for a bucket and a rag, and to finish his shift.

***

Much time has passed since then. He didn't want to leave this shop and abandon the craft, but the old man insisted.

"If she's the one I think she is from your stories, then this is your chance to make something of yourself, not rot away with an old wreck, polishing trinkets," in this moment he, for once, toned down his sarcasm. "Don't waste it, boy. Do as you see fit, but don't forget your own well-being either. Otherwise you'll live to eighty, and there won't be a soul around to hand you a glass of water. I don't need your services," the master was somewhat disingenuous; in the two years that had passed since his attack, his health had not improved in the slightest. "I'll hire another errand boy; there are dozens of your kind out on the street behind the fence."

There was, of course, no fence on the street behind which dozens of potential apprentices stood, but Lester knew it was impossible to argue the stubborn man down. But perhaps now that he had tasted the new approach and the shop's affairs had improved somewhat, he would reconsider his outlook on things.

Having warmly said goodbye to the owner — at which he pretended to wince, but it was clear it was feigned — Vargas set off toward new horizons, promising himself to continue visiting the old man whenever possible.

Only upon arriving at his service did he finally learn who exactly had invited him. It so happened that little was known about Deus to anyone; another person might even have mistaken her for some random fashionista or other bigwig.

The first period was not easy. He was given a "probationary period" — for what, they didn't say — and was worn down with military and intellectual drilling. In the former case, he puffed and sweated on the training ground; in the latter, he read library books to tatters, filling in the gaps in his knowledge of the world after his "shell shock," which was not unpleasant to him. He read quite a few books — perhaps he even had a predisposition for it.

In addition, word of his duel spread among the servicemen: some considered it exaggerated or misunderstood, others thought he had cheated, and a third group took it on faith. In the end, for the most part, he had a picture of a first impression of either rejection or liking toward himself. However, his presence in a room was hard to ignore. Tall and stout, good-natured and generous, he confirmed this image with his behavior as well — he told all sorts of jokes and stories, maintained modesty and optimism, and was ready to laugh both at himself and at the situation, sensing the mood of his interlocutor and being ready to offer advice or provide help. In the end, even his initial haters warmed up and accepted him as a given and as something meaningful in their previously resentment-filled lives. What did Lester himself think about all this — nothing at all, he simply followed the call of his heart, without delving into deep psychoanalysis.

Since he won the duel, something in him had irrevocably changed. As if a confidence in his own strength and in tomorrow had appeared, which he had previously lacked, not without its price, of course. At times he felt how that same subconscious seemed to intercept his speech and motor apparatus and do something of its own. Fragmentary phantom memories spun in his head, and his body did its own thing. He took this as a good sign — perhaps his memory was gradually recovering.

He saw that guard more than once in the corridors, and always wanted to talk to him, but the man ignored him for a long time. Finally, catching him on a dreary shift in an empty room, he managed to get the colleague talking, and the man admitted he had never lost such fights before. Precisely describing his feelings from the battle, Vargas voiced all his thoughts on the nature of that confrontation with such fervor that the guardsman listened to all this feedback with his mouth open, and at the end of his shift, Lester bought him a beer, and the man left completely satisfied.

There were also those who challenged him to duels themselves, swayed by rumors of cheating — only a few people. Each had their own motivation, and each left empty-handed. It wasn't that he was a super-fighter, quite the opposite. However, each time he clearly saw the vulnerability of each opponent. Which made one wonder — why do they leave it exposed, and why don't others see it? Remove one link from a bracelet or medallion, and the whole piece falls apart. Perhaps they derived some satisfaction from these risks. And yet, every time Lester tried to make the matter as dignified as possible for both parties involved. He believed: in conditions of rivalry, not war, what is the point of a duel without a human face.

Over time, he began to receive assignments — unclear from whom, they were voiced by a senior officer — which he carried out flawlessly. Follow someone, find something out, bring something. There were never any problems with this, and he kept waiting for the tutorial to end. Until he was once again summoned to Deus's carpet.

She granted him the rank of Knight of Tezoth and Canamia, and even bestowed a title upon him — Knight of Dawn Steel. Perhaps because he preferred to wield a short blade, accustomed to his work tools? The thoughts of the august are sometimes inscrutable to mere mortals. All he could do was kneel and accept the title.

***

"Tell me, my lord, how is it that you..." Boleslav struggled to find the words.

"That I what?" Lester continued the question.

"Well... have success with w... women. You're kind of..." the lad faltered. "Is it about rank or height?.."

"'Kind of' what?" Vargas bored into the boy with his eyes.

The latter glanced at his belly, immediately looked away, saying nothing.

"Are you trying to say I'm out of shape?" the lord leaned in and fixed his gaze on the trainee's downcast eyes. "A Knight of Tezoth?"

"N... no... I mean..." Bolek, aka Vlados, at that moment regretted being born.

Vargas bored into him with his eyes for a while longer, then laughed:

"A-ha-ha-ha-hah! You think too much, kid, just about the wrong things!" he slapped him on the shoulder. "Do you think six or eight packs make you a man, and without them you're nobody? That's a lousy way to think!"

"What way?"

"That way!" Lester proudly grabbed his belly with his hand. "An authoritative belly is honorable. It means you're in business and in money. The main thing is how you carry yourself, got it? Mope around — and even if you're a 12-pack, everyone will spit on you. But once you realize you're not a nobody, and start acting like it, everything will fall into place for you. Think of politicians. What about you yourself, got many women, or one true love?"

"I..." Vlados fell silent and hung his head.

"Really?" Lester was horrified. "That absolutely must be fixed, and as soon as possible! We'll find you a worthy wife!"

"My lord, but you yourself aren't married."

"I am me, and you are you!" Vargas cut off with iron logic. "Who is your main enemy, do you think?"

"I don't know. Mutants from the crater?"

"Hah! No. As trite as it sounds, your main enemy is yourself, and more specifically — the you of yesterday. The way you think, what you assume, and what you have at your disposal to achieve success in life. And do you know the main secret of victory? What do you need to do?" he didn't relent, staring into the trainee's face.

Vlados was silent for a while.

"Apparently... Check my vulnerabilities."

"Almost right, but not quite," Vargas wagged his finger. "It's important for you not only to understand that, but also your strengths. And that requires self-acceptance. But the main thing — you need to deceive the enemy, let him feel like he's got you, when in reality the situation is the opposite. Understand now? Marching in formation and following orders is good practice for a global war, but in essence — it's not about winning. Deceive the you of yesterday with your future self. That's the only way you'll defeat your enemy. In your case — forget your problems and move strictly forward, with caution and awareness, but not with the anchor of your previous failures."

"That's..." Vlados was stunned. "Sounds deep. I need to think about it."

"You'll think about it, you'll think about it, of course. But for now — to the tavern. Today I'm treating!"

"My lord, I'm not worthy..."

"Come on, come on! An offer from your lordship!"

"Well... If you insist..."

Lester dragged the young man along with him.

Mind 15

Body 16

Insight 20

Vigor 14

Aesthetics 25