Posts from Tiaral Auto-translated

You can play as an Asian who was turned into a vampire.

Grafenroyt with Bushido?

Vampires don't have any beliefs. They are like the bandits from Araid.

Beliefs exist for lesser forms of life. Superhumans have no need for them.

I know. But you can still imagine what it would be like...

Loken, can you tell me what Ayano is doing now?...

Is he involved in usury?

Does she embroider with a cross-stitch?

Reima and Bedivere lament their fate.

:(

At the very least, she definitely lost to Tsukiko's fate.

And then Tsukiko herself appeared and gave her a slap on the back of the head. Actually, no, Aiyano is probably still alive, because toходевочки don't die.

Unlike Tsukiko %).

The cellar, cluttered with crates and barrels, was a grim stone sack. At the moment, rustles, thumps, and muffled curses were emanating from the pile of supplies. One of the crates was shaking—an uninvited guest resided within, desperate to get out but unable to do so because he was pressed on all sides by other containers. The situation was amusing but extremely uncomfortable; moreover, oxygen barely penetrated inside, and even the calmest person in the world would feel a surge of panic in such a situation. And when you're a nervous guy, riddled with debts and problems, plus possess a foul temper—it isn't always possible to keep yourself within bounds.
Finally, a guttural roar and frantic pounding from the crate took effect—the container pinning the guest from above shifted and crashed to the floor, and a moment later, a worn boot broke through the problematic lid in a whirlwind of splinters and dust. The guest leaped to his feet, stretching his body with cracks and pain, while simultaneously coughing heavily, rubbing his eyes, and collapsing like a rag against the wall of his prison to catch his breath. Glancing with hatred at the cursed container on the floor that had prevented him from escaping quietly, he noticed it was filled with bags of some kind of construction powder. Spitting spitefully on this mess, the guest looked up and saw a man who had peeked into the cellar at the sound.
— I'll clean everything up! — the guest promised, raising a gloved palm conciliatorily in the air as a sign of good intentions. Simultaneously, his other hand made an inconspicuous movement, and a compact throwing knife struck the curious onlooker right in the bridge of the nose, hilt-deep.
The man opened his mouth slightly and blinked a couple of times, watching as the guest climbed out of the crate and stepped toward him, dusting himself off along the way; fortunately, the guest managed to catch him just as his legs gave way.
Carefully extracting the knife from the stranger's head, the visitor—who looked like an ordinary middle-aged man in a practical black suit with a multitude of pockets and straps—roughly shoved the body aside into a corner, where the darkness conveniently swallowed any object completely, and where no one would likely see him even if they stood right next to it. Tidying himself up and lifting his leg to step over the threshold, the man heard someone else's approaching footsteps and froze.
— Help!.. — he called out piteously. — Someone is ill!
Another inspector came around the corner, fixed the guest with a blank stare, and then shifted his gaze to the "invisible" body in the corner.
— He just fainted! I'll get the healer! — the guest clapped the new acquaintance on the shoulder, yanked him close, and with his other hand delivered a series of dagger strikes to his chest and abdomen.
Tossing this body on top of the first, he couldn't help but notice how shabby and similar these people looked—overgrown with tangled hair and beards, smelling unpleasant, with bad teeth and dull eyes.
Shaking his head and glancing into the corridor, the visitor spent a few seconds trying to orient himself. Finally, recalling the floor plan from memory, he left the cellar and moved further. As expected, there was no one in the basement except for a couple of guards, and no one else noticed his noisy arrival. This could not but please the guest, as his source—a rogue, drug addict, and simply an old acquaintance—was not a hundred percent reliable. Lens always understated the danger of a job, but he never erred regarding the assortment of stored valuables, and sometimes even drew a surprisingly accurate map. If it weren't for these positive qualities outweighing the flaws, he would have long since been resting at the bottom of some river, tied to a heavy boulder and gnawed by fish.
"Just don't let me down this time, old friend..." — thought the thief as he approached the room at the end of the corridor. Listening once more to his instincts, he cracked open the door and saw a spacious room with a couple of bookshelves, some junk, and a table with a chair in the center. On the chair, leaning back, snorted and snored a huge man of wild appearance with a scarred face, and various documents and folders were spread on the table before him. The guest realized this was the quartermaster. Entering and closing the door behind him, he softly stepped behind the sleeper's back, pulled out two narrow shivs, and drove them into both his eyelids. The man jerked as if struck by lightning, but couldn't even scream—a very strong leather cord settled around his neck.
— Oops! Did I wake you?.. Sorry, I'll be gone soon, — the guest said, breathing heavily from the desperate struggle with the quartermaster.
Finally, the last convulsions passed; the man calmed down and went limp in the chair. The robber removed the garrote, rolled it up and hid it in his pocket, and stretched his stiff fingers. He decided to leave the shivs as a gift for the quartermaster—it looked far too dramatic. The guest was pleased with himself—he had long wanted to try something like this, but it wasn't that simple, and here an opportunity had presented itself.
Leaving the worker to finish his dreams at his post, the man focused on the far wall of the room. Somewhere here... no, here... or here... The thief simply could not find the switch. He tapped almost every brick on this wall and even on the adjacent one, but there was no sign of a secret passage. He shuddered when he heard a long, characteristic ringing from somewhere above, on the surface. An alarm? Had those bodies already been discovered?
— Lens, you piece of sh... — he grew nervous again and began groping the wall. — Rotten, lying, disgusting little man, this is the last time you screw me over...
The guest interrupted his tirade because one of the stones under his hand shifted. He drove a knife into the gap between the stone and the cement and began to work with wild speed. After ten seconds, he pried the stone out enough that he could grab it by hand and pull it out, discovering a mini-lever behind it. Without hesitation, the thief activated it, and the world spun. Stepping away from the lever, he realized that the wall connected to the section of floor where he stood had rotated on its axis and moved him to the other side—into the notorious secret corridor; or rather, not into the corridor itself, but a one-meter by one-meter room with a wooden door. If his activity in the basement had already been noticed and the alarm raised, he needed to move as quickly as possible—who knew how soon they would decide to check this passage? Taking a deep breath, the guest flung open the door, seeing the actual corridor before him and hearing a very unpleasant "fshhhhh". Instantly slamming the door and stepping back, he bumped into the wall from which he had come, and a fraction of a second later, a huge iron bolt pierced the door and got stuck in it, stopping a palm's breadth from his face.
— Weak, — the man chuckled, opened the door, and heard "fshhhhh" again. Stepping aside, he observed as several more bolts raced through the spot where he had previously stood, slamming into the stone wall. One of them ricocheted toward his temple, but by a miracle, he managed to dodge it.
— My apologies, — he whispered after the trap ran out of ammunition.
Finally, the robber left the anteroom and entered a dark corridor of uncertain length that stretched far into the gloom. A layer of dust was visible on the floor—but not too thick—and a faint light diffused from the ceiling. In general, this passage could not be called completely abandoned. The guest carefully inspected the floor, ceiling, and walls before taking a cautious step forward, and finally, summoning his courage, he took it. "Click," and axes flying out of the walls forced him to collapse to the floor. Rolling away, he heard another "click"—circular blades rising from the floor forced him to jump up and slip past like an eel, hugging the wall, from holes in which needles flew. Escaping them with a forward roll, breathing convulsively and drenched in sweat, he triggered another trap—jets of fire from the floor and ceiling. Howling in despair, the brigand ran same-head forward, losing the last remnants of caution and calculation...
After a couple of minutes that felt like a couple of decades, he tumbled out of the corridor into another room and crashed to the floor like a sack of shit. By this point, he had no moral or physical strength left, and if the sadist-architect had left one final snare here, the criminal would have accepted his fate resignedly. But perhaps the designer lacked imagination, or perhaps another exit began here—either way, it seemed nothing more threatened the guest.
Having caught his breath, calmed down, and checked the integrity of his body and attire, he looked back with hatred at the deadly corridor that hacked, sawed, pierced, burned, and suffocated with gas, and sincerely wished this architect, as well as all his relatives, descendants, friends, and colleagues, every possible disease, torture, and mental suffering.
Restoring his moral equilibrium, he inspected the room he had entered. It was not very large and completely empty, except for a lever in the opposite wall and a wooden chest against the side wall. Scratching the back of his head, the thief cautiously approached the chest—nothing happened. He felt it and all the space around it—a chest is just a chest, nothing interesting, except that it wasn't locked.
Choosing his thinnest blade, the guest drove it between the lids of the chest, slowly lifted them a few millimeters, and peered inside for a long time—until he spotted the faint glint of metallic fishing line.
— Found an idiot... What year is this? — spitting, he stepped away from the chest, gathered his courage, and activated the lever.
The wall rotated one hundred and eighty degrees, and it took his breath away—it ejected him into a giant hall. Aside from moonlight from gothic stained-glass windows and the glow of rare torches on columns, there was no lighting at all. The hall was filled with curious statues and hung with paintings of various content; furthermore, the Robber discerned a stepped elevation before him, and upon it—a strange structure. He realized that Lens's map had been correct, and the corridor had led him into the hall right behind the throne—somewhere here there should be a passage to the treasury. Naturally, this exact moment was something his dear informant could no longer put into words, and he was expected to search for it himself.
The man began to scour the hall in search of doors or switches, but suddenly heard, and then saw, huge double doors swing open, and barely managed to slip behind the nearest cover. A cloud of either smoke or steam burst from the entrance, and with it, a shapeless silhouette entered the hall. It headed inside unhurriedly, making its way toward the throne, and when the light of one of the torches flickered over it, the robber grimaced in disgust—he had not seen such freaks even among non-humans.
The new acquaintance entered alone, and the man decided that there could be no better opportunity to finish him. Stepping softly and silently, he emerged from behind a column and, shaking his head to the rhythm of a melody in his own mind, with two daggers in his hands, stepped after him.

***

Lightning flashed in the night, illuminating a baggy figure in black-gray attire and a hood beneath the fortress wall. It stood with its head tilted back, surveying the fort. On both sides, corner watchtowers framed the wall: from one of them, the wall continued toward the gates, and from the other—toward the main building. The figure shrugged—the section it had chosen was no worse or better than others. Stretching and taking a deep breath, the stranger raced up the wall in a few moments, leaped over its sharp crenellations, and landed on top. Right before him, as if on the palm of a hand, lay the modest interior layout of the fortress: a wide courtyard where a few ragged own-beings busied themselves gloomily back and forth, laden with crates, and several small buildings.
Another flash of lightning struck, followed by a long and threatening roll of thunder, and a fine, nasty rain began to drizzle. The flash illuminated about a dozen silhouettes in armor as black as night, who were advancing with measured steps from all corners of the courtyard straight toward the wall where the intruder was positioned. Looking around, he noted with satisfaction how two pairs of exactly same guards surrounded him on both sides of the wall with stomping and clanking. Two quick movements and two bright flashes—and the soldiers collapsed to the floor in a heap of useless iron. A couple of guards from the courtyard had already reached the wall and were beginning to climb the ladder, but the intruder kicked a barrel containing something heavy into them, and they flew apart like bowling pins.
Rolling up his sleeves and knocking fist against fist, he was ready to plunge into the depths of an uneven battle, but the silence was pierced by the disgusting and deafeningly loud sound of a bell coming from the corner tower. The intruder turned toward the sound and saw an observation post right under its roof, where a little man was frantically beating his cymbal. A torch illuminated his face with wide-open bulging eyes and a slobbery tongue hanging out of a wide-open mouth.
A shudder ran through the baggy intruder's body, and his palms clenched into fists. Stepping over the remains of the guards, with a very dissatisfied and angry gait, he reached the tower, jumped all the way to its top, and hung in the air right opposite the bell-ringer.
— Shine!!! — he roared and struck him with a fist in his vile face. At the moment of contact, a tongue of flame licked the sentinel's face; from the blow, he froze, recoiled, flew over the railing, and fell out of the tower beyond the fortress limits, tumbling in his fall like a splinter. Satisfied with the result, the intruder tore down the bell and hurled it after him.
A hatch in the floor of the tower flung open with a crash, and from it appeared the iron hands and head of a black guard. The intruder jumped up and ripped off the helmet—two black voids on a half-decomposed skull stared back at him. Striking him with the helmet and kicking away the hands clutching the stone floor, the stranger in one movement incinerated both him and the entire line of guards climbing after him up the vertical ladder, then slammed the hatch shut.
Jumping from the tower, he landed smoothly back on the wall, on the other side. At the end of this path awaited a sturdy wooden door—a side entrance from the wall into the main building. Useless black knights, scurrying below like ants, simulated own-busy activity, pacing back and forth and poking at all the doors, but could not keep up with the attacker. Walking along the wall to his goal and turning several more skeletons into nothingness in the process, the intruder gripped the door handle and heard another incredibly powerful roll of thunder, and a moment later felt the fort shaken by a shockwave. Those idiots must have messed up somewhere with the gunpowder, or perhaps they were struck by lightning.
The rain intensified; the intruder shivered and entered the building. The contrast was striking—it was surprisingly quiet in the main building, as if all the fortress personnel were amusing themselves outside. Passing through several empty service rooms, the visitor descended the stairs to the first floor, into a small hall. Behind him was apparently the main entrance to this structure, and ahead—doors leading to the heart of the fortress. Before the intruder could take even a few steps, a shadow darted at him from the gloom, flashing polished steel. Without even glancing at it and without slowing his pace, he made a quick gesture with his hand, and the shadow collapsed to the floor with a clank and a crash. The intruder continued his leisurely path toward the door, but then a straw hat of an unusual style rolled to his feet. He froze, tilted his head to the side, and looked at it closely. Then he turned to the defeated opponent and could not determine its affiliation. Something completely monstrous and incomprehensible, made partly of metal and leather, lay motionless on the cold floor, and two red lights glowed maliciously in place of eyes. Losing interest in the unknowable, the tourist continued his way, stepping on the hat and trampling it.
Meeting no further resistance, he left the room and found himself at the beginning of a wide corridor decorated with ornamentation, marble, and gold, along whose floor a crimson carpet runner was spread; tapestries and posters with inspiring inscriptions hung from the walls and ceilings, colorful ribbons and balloons from the ceiling, and at the end were huge double carved doors. The corridor evoked a very foul feeling in the soul—and the further he went, the worse it got. Nodding to himself, the visitor realized that this was exactly where he needed to go.
Walking stately along the solemn path, he gradually began to hear an indistinct whisper, stronger and stronger, and colors began to lose their brightness. Halfway through, he began to discern clouds and wisps of smoke swirling around. And finally, a few meters before the final doors, the surface of the walls, ceiling, and floor blistered and swelled. The same-whisper changed to laughter, and the clouds of smoke spun and began to take flesh. The stranger did not need to turn around to understand that the way back was cut off—thick and slimy tentacles burst from all sides and all surfaces, surrounding him. From a tumor on the carved doors, a disgusting face slowly emerged. It smiled, licked its lips, crept toward the intruder, opened its maw, let out a terrifying roar, and blasted him with a stream of musty air and phlegm.
The baggy figure did not move and did not lower his head. Waiting for this primitive threat to end, he folded his palms before him, nodded, and said:
— Itadakimas.

***

A group of riders on roaring steel horses raced across the prairies in a wide chain, kicking up a sea of dust behind them. A brigade of rather unsightly heavies in leather cloaks, with heavy bags, armed with cold and ephemeral weapons. On the third night of their journey, they spotted in the distance the black spires of their destination—the cursed castle of Sabernight. For a long time, it had been considered abandoned, but in recent months, rumors of suspicious activity within its walls had reached random travelers and merchants. At first, no one paid much attention to this—after all, who knows what kind of same-unclean might reside in those walls. But soon the stories took on a threatening tone—the fortress had grown fortifications, unidentified figures could be discerned on its walls and towers, and one of the caravans passing by had been shot at with crossbow bolts. The leadership decided to take measures and sent a diplomatic detachment, equipped for the event of failed negotiations and a transition to Plan B.
The rider who rode slightly ahead and in the center waved his hand and gave the squad the signal to stop. After circling a few times as a final touch, the procession of bikers stopped on top of a hill and removed their helmets.
— We're almost there. Oxy—reconnoiter, — ordered the one in the center. She was a woman with long chestnut hair and a piercing gaze.
Oxy saluted, jumped off his motorcycle, grabbed a bag, and ran into the darkness. He had been military before; this often manifested and sometimes looked quite funny. And now he took a position behind a boulder and carefully inspected the target.
— The rest of you—check your gear. Dormidon, don't sleep! — a plump elderly little man, nodding off, startled and grumbled.
Ignoring his complaints, the commander sighed, shook the dust from her hair, and pondered. To kill time while waiting for the scout's report, she reached into an inner pocket and extracted a photograph.
It depicted four girls, one of whom was herself. They were in swimsuits, in a tropical setting, on a white sand beach with a transparent blue sea in the background. The face of the girl with chestnut hair was flushed, expressing emotions of confusion, excitement, and joy simultaneously, and she didn't know what to do with her hands—as she was in the embrace of another woman, a tall polished blonde with eyes the color of that same sea, holding a cocktail in one hand and pressing the chestnut girl's face against her ample breast with the other, winking and smirking. Beside them stood a second blonde, with a fragile figure, cloud-soft hair, and delicate facial features—she gazed at this scene in amazement, eyes wide open and covering her mouth with her delicate toy-like palms, and her face was even redder than that of the "victim." On her shoulder lay the hand of a fourth woman—a fit athletic brunette in sunglasses, who had thrown her head back in boisterous laughter and was pointing with the finger of her other hand, also holding a cocktail, at this mute scene.
Gently stroking the photograph and smiling, the commander felt warmth and lightness in her chest. She remembered this wonderful episode, although she knew that no one could have taken this photo. She had very many photographs—hundreds over recent years. Sometimes she found them in random and not-so-random places, sometimes she simply received them by mail. All these snapshots were dedicated to them, and all were united by one thing—a patterned signature "L.G." on the back.
— Reporting!!! — a own-manly voice barked beside her.
With lightning speed, the woman whipped a revolver from her belt holster and aimed at Oxy.
— My bad! — the soldier bowed his head. — Habit!
The commander took a deep breath to calm her nerves, put away the weapon, and listened to the report. Some kind of commotion was happening in the fortress; guards were rushing back and forth and had apparently abandoned their posts.
— Moving out, — the girl put on her helmet. — We're working loud.
The brigade sprang up in an instant and raced toward the gates. Crashes and flashing lights emanated from behind the fortress walls; someone was beating a bell—an alarm. A crossbow bolt whizzed a centimeter from the commander's temple—fire was being directed at them from the gates and walls.
— Rhine! Beretta! — the commander gestured.
Two fighters rode a motorcycle with a sidecar. The huge warrior-passenger ripped a bolter from his shoulder and, while on the move, fired several shots at the defenders' heads, blowing them to bits. The squad approached the fortress.
— Dormidon!
Dormidon, who had been picking his nose, jerked, rolled over awkwardly, and fell off the motorcycle into the dust, nearly crushing a dangerous bag with his body. Cursing and limping, he jumped up to the gates, extracted and set explosives, and ran back. Taking position behind their bikes, the squad waited for the explosion that warped and blew out the gates.
The commander broke from her position and entered the fort, the guys following her. Breaking through the smoke, she found herself in a wide courtyard mired in chaos. Here and there, haphazardly scurrying knights and random slaves were visible. One of them, with a crazed look, walked straight toward her with a hammer in his hands, dragging a pile of boards behind him.
— Halt! Hands up! — she threatened him with her weapon, but he paid no attention and passed by her, making his way to the gates.
A moment later, he caught a blast of buckshot from one of the guys and fell as if mown down. To their surprise, he did not die but was still squirming in the dirt, trying to crawl toward the gates until he was finished off.
— What the hell... — the shooter muttered.
— Seems he really wanted to fix the gates, — Dormidon chuckled.
— Don't get distracted! Take positions! — the commander whipped out a second revolver and opened a barrage of fire on the knights approaching them.
Some shots ricocheted off armor; others tore chunks of metal from it, revealing beneath a sight of desiccated bones and half-decomposed flesh. Rhine and a couple of powerful guys entered close combat and crushed the enemy with two-handed swords and hammers. Dormidon, with an unusual agility for himself, climbed onto an elevation and threw grenades from there. Oxy rolled, took cover, changed position, and combined the destructive power of a shotgun with precise sword strokes. Beretta poured automatic fire on the enemy.
A huge number of knights were destroyed, but new ones constantly appeared from buildings and fortifications. The commander realized that the only way out was the same-speed completion of the combat mission—as always.
She had long observed how some of the undead, instead of attacking them, were forcing their way into the gates of the main building at the far end of the courtyard; why they did this was unclear, but it was surely somehow connected to what was happening here. She barked an order, knowing her guys could hold the front, and raced toward the goal. Part of the way she was covered by Rhine with a rifle, but in general, the slow and moronic knights couldn't even get close—she raced like a whirlwind, shooting everyone in her path.
The entrance to the headquarters was easily cleared with a grenade, and the shockwave blew out its lock. Shooting several heads of pursuers, she jumped inside, slammed the doors, and pushed a conveniently located wardrobe from the first room against them.
Catching her breath and wiping sweat from her forehead, she noticed half-open doors at the opposite end of the room and a figure sprawled on the floor. The figure vaguely resembled a human but looked very eerie, like a corpse. It didn't move, but its eyes followed the woman. Grimacing, she bypassed it and hurried into another room—a corridor whose sight and smell triggered a gag reflex. Everything was splattered with some incomprehensible black stinking slime that was steaming. Torn posters with illegible inscriptions were hung everywhere. On one of them, she could read "Congratulations". Tattered and soiled tapestries and paintings with smiling faces of a motley group of armed people against various landscapes hung on the walls.
Holding her breath and pressing a handkerchief to her mouth and nose, the commander walked quickly through the small corridor, trying not to step in puddles of pus, until she stopped at another set of half-open doors. Dropping to one knee and bringing her revolver to bear, she peered inside and saw a huge hall with columns, statues, and a throne at the end. Near the throne stood a figure in a shapeless cloak, and behind it, raising a hand with a blade, stood a thug.
She fired.

***

The bullet knocked the dagger from the robber's hand; he shrieked and darted for cover. The cloaked figure turned, saw the fugitive and the woman entering the hall with a weapon aimed at her, and rose into the air; a white aura sparkled around it. The woman watched this event in amazement and was horrified to see the face—toothy and fanged, corpse-blue in color, with maliciously glowing eyes. She realized she had made a mistake. The demon shook with rage and fired several times in response, but the girl dove into cover just in time—behind the nearest statue.
From behind a column, the thief watched as the demon began to move in a semicircle through the hall, continuing its barrage, while his opponent moved from cover to cover, responding with shots.
"Right moment... right moment..." — he thought, gripping a throwing knife tightly in his hand. After a few moments, he threw it at the demon's back—it was an ideal throw, aimed between the third and fourth vertebrae, perhaps the best of his life. But the knife failed him—it hit an energy barrier and fell to the floor. The demon turned with a furious roar and unleashed a volley at the bandit.
— Aaaaah, stop! I was joking! — he yelled, pressing his back against the column and pulling up his legs so they wouldn't be hit by flashes of white flame.
The demon erupted in a multi-story string of curses, skillfully combining elements of Imperial and Nihon languages, but its tirade was cut short in the middle by a truly thunderous roar that rolled through the entire hall, making one's blood run cold.
The attention of all present shifted to the throne, from behind which something huge and extremely disgusting emerged with monstrous slowness. Thick and crooked clawed paws, a spiky and very mobile worm-like tail, a fat hairy carcass, three heads—horned, fanged, and one-eyed. It stood on two hind legs, while its two front ones reached forward bloodthirstily.
The demon reacted lightning-fast—with one wave of the hand, it fired a volley of energy discharges at the chimera. They entered its body with a hiss, causing the monster pain and a fit of rage. It lashed out with claws, but the demon easily dodged this attack and continued firing. Then the fanged head opened its maw and released a wide hail of fire projectiles over an extensive area. Surprisingly, the demon easily dodged these attacks as well, simply slipping between the shots and ignoring all laws of aerodynamics.
The one-eyed head grimaced and fired a wide and almost instantaneous energy beam that managed to hit the demon. The latter lost balance in the air and hissed in pain, but didn't have time to respond—the chimera released another beam, and another, and another. The demon had only to maneuver to avoid damage.
"This is the end for you, little brother" — thought the robber, watching this uneven struggle, but a moment later, heavy barking of an ephemeral was added to the sounds of supernatural combat. The girl in leather was maintaining a barrage of fire with both hands at the chimera's one-eyed head until finally its eye burst and the crushed head hung from the neck as a barely moving lifeless lump.
The chimera let out a deafening scream, dashed toward the shooter's position in one jump, and struck with a paw. There was no doubt that with its strength it would turn both the cover and the person behind it into a mash of meat, bone, and stone. However, the monster did not reach its goal—an energy barrier prevented it from getting close.
The girl peeked from behind the statue and saw the demon continuing the attack. The chimera's horned head bleated and belched a huge green sphere oozing pus and slime. It flew after the demon, ignoring all its maneuvers and repeating the trajectory, while the liquid dripping from it onto the hall floor burned through the stone. Now the demon had to maneuver constantly, and he had almost no time for counterattacks. The commander reloaded her weapon and delivered a new volley at the horned head, but for it, with its coarse fur, these were nothing more than mosquito bites. She fussed and tried to find some kind of weak spot, but she failed, and she could not leave the barrier while the monster stood close.
Meanwhile, the demon wasn't even shooting anymore, only trying to dodge a dozen acid spheres—it was clear his strength was spent. And then, making another loop, he made a mistake and ended up too close to the beast. Its loathsome tail, which everyone had forgotten, delivered a lightning strike and slammed the annoying opponent right into a column. The small baggy figure flew down like a stone, and stone debris rained down on him.
Taking a deep breath and clenching her teeth, the commander prepared to leave the barrier and say goodbye to life in one last desperate attempt to do something, when suddenly a smooth shadow jumped from a beam under the ceiling straight onto the monsterA thug, overlooked in this skirmish, turned pale and cursed the Lens, the treasures, the monsters, and everything under the sun as he climbed a "cat" ladder toward the roof. Balancing on a narrow piece of wood like an acrobat, breaking into a cold sweat of fear with every shot that passed dangerously close, he found himself above the chimera and noticed a very tempting, exposed spot on its scruff that practically begged for a blade. Drawing his best and favorite sword from its sheath, he slapped his cheeks and attacked. The short sword sank into the horned head's neck like a knife through butter; it shrieked and thrashed, while he clung to the sword and the surrounding fur with a death grip. The chimera tried to swipe him away with its paw, but failed, so it struck again with its tail. The blow knocked the wind out of the brigand, and spikes pierced his leg, sending him plummeting down in a heap. The sword was ripped out, and a fountain of black blood erupted from the wound. The horned head wheezed, foam gathering on its lips, and finally, it went limp.
The chimera had lost much blood and gasped heavily for air with its only remaining head. It took a few steps toward the wounded opponent, but several more shots struck it in the back of the neck. Turning slowly with bloodshot eyes, the monster, salivating, strode toward the annoying girl. She smiled—the barrier had already fallen, and she was to face the freak one last time.
Tossing aside the empty barrels, she reached behind her back and pulled out her most powerful and heavy weapon—a multi-shot hybrid of a revolver and a hand cannon. The chimera approached. The girl flipped the safety off, closed her eyes, and leaned her forehead against the weapon for a few moments, whispering something softly. The chimera was now almost upon her. The Commander opened her eyes, aimed the weapon directly into the monster's open maw with her right hand, and cocked the hammer with her left. The chimera opened its moronic mouth, fire glowing deep within. The Commander fired once, twice, third, fourth—instantly cocking the hammer again and again after each shot. Flashes of gunfire illuminated an engraving on the weapon in the gloom: "Denim".
Emptying the entire cylinder took about one and a half seconds. With its maw torn apart and a look of utter surprise, the chimera recoiled, stepped back, convulsively struck with its tail and pierced the woman's abdomen, but a moment later another tongue of white fire flared in the darkness, and the exhausted, charred carcass of the monster finally gave up the ghost and collapsed right onto the throne.
Through the cloud of dust, one could discern the figure of a "demon" with a raised hand, half-buried under stones—its appearance had been a mask that lay in a pool of blood nearby, and beneath it was an ordinary woman's face, albeit Japanese and drenched in blood.
Clutching her stomach and grimacing in monstrous pain, the Commander somehow managed to get back on her feet. Fortunately, her protective device was undamaged and had already begun its regenerative effect; otherwise, it would have been quite foul to die from a hole in the gut.
"An ordinary human would never have survived such a blow," she hissed through the pain, limping toward the Japanese woman.
"It's been worse. This is nothing at all," she replied smugly, though the effect of the phrase was marred by a gag reflex. Spitting out a huge clot of blood, the Japanese woman barely managed to crawl from under the debris, stood up, and stared hostilely at the chestnut-haired girl.
The latter shook her head and raised her hands:
"No, I'm done. Empty. And anyway—where does this ingratitude come from? After I saved your life? Though it's not surprising. You are Akuma-sama, after all. We have a file on you."
The Japanese woman grimaced.
"The degenerate who came up with that nickname couldn't have been further from the truth. He hasn't been kicked in the rear for a long time."
A hacking cough sounded from same distance; the girls turned their heads and noticed that the man had regained consciousness. Coughing and rolling onto his stomach, he hissed as he examined his riddled leg and felt his broken ribs.
"Sssscum... Lens, you ffffffoul piece of trash, creature, monster..." He paused, looking up at his new acquaintances and lingering on Akuma-sama. "Ehh... you're actually not that ugly."
"But you're certainly no beauty," she pointed a palm at him.
"I apologize, I apologize! It was an accident! I didn't know! I came here and it was such a mess. And well... you know," he raised his hands placatingly and added appealingly, nodding toward the chimera's corpse. "You handled it skillfully, truly from the heart."
The woman in the cloak interrupted the exchange of pleasantries:
"That doesn't matter now. What matters is deciding what we do next. Just for your information—I have a squad of operatives left over there who are fighting... who exactly, by the way? Some kind of undead?"
"Undead?" the bandit asked blankly, picking his nose.
"Spawn of hell, summoned by black magic. I must find and destroy the source, and then all of them," the Japanese woman muttered fanatically in a low voice.

"Aaaaaah!!! What is this! What have you done!" a piercing little voice rang out, and small shoes stomped across the stone floor.
The three guests watched blankly as a child jumped out from the darkness with a broom and dustpan and hurriedly began collecting debris into it. A girl. In a dress and with bows.
"Is she yours?" the man asked the Japanese woman.
She ignored him and fixed the lolita with an icy gaze.
"No, this is useless," the child said, tossing her tools into the darkness and stamping her foot, hands on hips. "What is all this? Explain yourselves!"
"Well, err," the man scratched the back of his head. "We... well... we're very sorry."
The girl in leather remained silent.
Akuma-sama took two steps forward and poked a finger.
"YOU explain yourself, brat, before I give you a lashing! What the hell is going on here? Undead and demons! I could level this whole place to the ground!"
"Hmph, how rude," the girl puffed out. "But now I understand that you are guests. I thought you were some of mine and had fallen out over something again."
Shuffling her foot, she smiled and performed a curtsy.
"Welcome to my humble Haven! Did you see the posters, balloons, and ribbons? And the confetti? We spent three days decorating all this! For you—honored guests."
The Commander and the brigand looked at each other, while the Japanese woman frowned even deeper.
"So it was your doing? You are the source of evil that seized Saberknight?" her palm flared with white flame.
"Well, yes. Whose else would it be?" the girl giggled strangely. "But 'evil'—how so? I don't understand. Have I done something bad to anyone?"
Akuma-sama fired at the child, but the shot reflected right back at her and dissipated.
"Now that was completely unnecessary," the lolita pursed her lips. "Some people here are unfamiliar with the rules of etiquette."
The Japanese woman seethed with rage.
"We encountered demons and undead here," the second girl said calmly. "And people with enslaved minds."
"Ah, right! Right! And I was wondering—why are they so stupid?" he snapped his fingers.
The hostess shrugged.
"That's for self-defense. All sorts of villains will think ten times before poking their noses in here. As for those people, well..." she shyly fidgeted with her fingers. "They were the villains. I was walking through the desert and they appeared. They started swearing and laughing and threatening me, fantasizing about what they would do to me. So I refused. If I had left them, they would have killed someone else, or been killed by soldiers. I could have destroyed them myself, of course, but they looked so defenseless and worn down by life, I felt a little sorry for them... So I gave them a purpose in life, some work and sustenance. Though they weren't exactly brilliant before, and now they're just completely simple."
She sighed.
"But that is equivalent to death," the Commander wondered. "Do you really not understand?"
"Stop," the girl shook her head. "I find all this very interesting, truly. However, everyone I've ever discussed the philosophy of life with ended up in terrible agony. Please, don't."
Akuma-sama pulled another eerie mask from her robes, put it on, and examined the brat. The mask showed nothing—absolutely nothing. It was very strange. She removed it and pointed her finger commandingly again:
"I demand that you dispel your charms and leave these lands forever."
"And share some treasures with us..." the brigand grumbled.
The hostess's face lit up.
"Of course! That's why I planned all this! Here, look what I have," she approached a structure covered in cloth and ripped it off. Beneath was something like a mirror, but it didn't reflect this hall; instead, it showed another richly decorated room—a dining hall where silhouettes in aprons moved between tables. "This is my home. I invite you to a celebratory dinner in honor of victory in my trial—the walkthrough of Saberknight and the clearing of the throne room!"
"What's this?" the robber scratched his buttock.
"A portal to a distant, unknown world with countless treasures! To another continent!" the mistress of Saberknight waved her arms. "I am gathering talented people to create my own mercenary company, with gambling and merry women, interesting quests and untold rewards, mysterious Factions and cozy Fortresses! You simply must try it; you've passed all my tests, which means we'll handle it with one hand tied behind our backs!"
The three remained silent.
"I travel the world in search of and eradication of evil. I am not interested in some trinkets. Furthermore, I do not work with bio-trash."
"B-but I'm not bio-trash..." the lolita was taken aback.
"I am already in a service that I love and find profitable, and I have no need for such things," the chestnut-haired girl shook her head. "My apologies."
"Well err... yeah..." the thug picked his ear. "And besides... I still have to visit Lens."
The smile vanished from the unfortunate child's face, her shoulders slumped, and her lips trembled.
"It seems... now I finally know what sadness is," she sniffled, her lips quivering. "To travel so many years such a vast distance to fulfill the dream of my... my... And to suffer a crushing defeat in a single moment." She waved her hand, and the chimera's corpse dissolved. "Take whatever you find. Though there isn't much here."
Hanging her head heavily, she stepped into the portal.
"Well, you know... stop by anytime if you want. Even just for tea," she said sadly. "Since I have no full-fledged friends left."
Stepping through the mirror, she moved to the other side. Mechanical servants rushed toward her, but she sent them away. Turning back to the trio, she waved her hand. There was a smile on her face, but tears flowed from her eyes.
Despite the fact that all the guests held completely different values, they all felt equally shitty.
"Another continent... Is that even real? Does it exist?.." Nano mused thoughtfully. "If so, and if we now have access, one could trade with it."
"I could probably, like, lay low there," Scammerfield mumbled. "Nobody knows me there... Lens will actually live longer."
"Surely it's full of filth, since I've never been there," Ayano thought, remembering the straw hat. "There might be my idiot kinsmen there, plotting god knows what. Or conversely, suffering like cowards under some kind of oppression."
They stood and weighed all the pros and cons, not even noticing how the first rays of dawn began to penetrate through the shattered stained-glass windows.

This is what revenge does to people.