CHAPTER 4
The Royal Capital of Lugnica, Flower Street, 12:30 PM
Tom and Mary found themselves at the very edge of the sidewalk. They were arguing about the wooden sword. Tom kept insisting that the sword was his. Mary didn't waste words. She snatched the toy from her brother's hands. She was nine, Tom was seven. With this sword, which looked exactly like a real one, Tom had been playing near the neighboring house. Mary had sneaked up on him and grabbed the toy.
— Mom doesn't allow you to play here.
Tom stubbornly tried to pull the object of contention back to himself.
— You're not mom.
Mary replied:
— Mom said you have to listen to me when she goes shopping.
Tom lunged at her and hit her on the arm. The sword flew out of her hands and fell onto the road, rolling down a slight slope.
— Well, Tom, you...
Without listening to his sister, he ran after the reclaimed prize.
At the beginning of the street, a dragon cart appeared. It moved slowly, the driver scanning the surroundings like a predator searching for its prey. Mary rushed to Tom, pulling him back.
— Wait, you fool! The cart!
Tom struggled with all his might. The cart continued to approach unhurriedly.
— Move along, move along, — he commanded impatiently to the driver.
Tom and Mary were surprised to notice that the driver slowed down and directed the cart down a narrow path leading to two houses—theirs and the neighbor's. The poor toy, run over by the wheels, was crushed, leaving only splinters of wood on the road.
The frightened children fell silent. Mary stepped back, and Tom was speechless with indignation. A tall man in a black coat with gold trimmings, a white shirt with a lace collar, dark trousers, and high boots got out of the cart. He walked past them with heavy steps. Mary clung tightly to her brother.
He looked at the children with brown eyes, which seemed frightening to them, and calmly and confidently asked:
— Where is Jack Martin's house?
The children, terrified by his imposing appearance and frightening gaze, silently pointed a finger at the entrance to Martin's house. The man nodded and headed towards the indicated door.
He approached the door and knocked loudly. A voice from inside the house responded:
— Who is it?
— I need to talk to you, — the man said firmly.
The door opened slightly, and Jack peeked out.
— Jack Martin? — the Terminator asked bluntly.
— Yes, — Jack replied.
Without giving him time to react, the Terminator shoved the door with such force that it collapsed inward, knocking Jack to the ground. The man entered the house, drawing his newly created pistol.
Jack tried to get up, but his gaze met the terrifying eyes of the stranger.
The Terminator took aim and fired; the bullet struck exactly two centimeters above his right eyebrow. A blinding flash followed, and he saw nothing more.
The Terminator aimed lower and shot him in the chest. Again. And again. Until the magazine was empty. The crackle of gunfire echoed throughout the house, creating a feeling of terror and hopelessness.
The Terminator stood over Jack Martin's body, his gaze cold and indifferent. He carefully inspected the room, looking for documents or other items that could confirm the target's identity. Soon, his attention was drawn to a note on the table, on which the name "Jack Martin" was written. Identification of the target gave a positive result. In his mind, the Terminator noted that one of the three targets had been successfully eliminated.
At that moment, Tom ran to the door of the house and froze in the doorway. His mind could not comprehend the full horror of what was happening. He loved to play, but he had never seen anything like this. Jack lay on the floor, and blood soaked the carpet beneath him. Mary approached Tom just as the Terminator was coldly examining the corpse, unhurriedly, as if studying educational material.
Mary grabbed her brother's hand and ran to their home as fast as she could, not looking back.
The Terminator hid the weapon under his clothes, removing all traces of his presence, and left the house, heading for his dragon cart.
The children, holding their breath, watched him from the window of their house. When the cart drove away, Mary burst into hysterical tears.
Tom, still not fully understanding what had happened, merely whimpered:
— The man broke my sword.
The whole incident took no more than two or three minutes and was already beginning to lose its real contours in the children's minds. In this sudden, brutal, and senseless death, no one would yet be able to decipher the hidden meaning.
The children would be left with a psychological trauma that would haunt them for the rest of their lives.
Priscilla Barielle's Estate, 1:10 PM
Lunch at Priscilla Barielle's estate promised to be an important event. The hall was tastefully decorated, and on the long table, covered with a snow-white tablecloth, exquisite dishes were already set. Waiters in impeccably white uniforms were skillfully setting the table, rushing to be ready for the arrival of the guests. The atmosphere in the room was one of luxury and aristocratic elegance.
Priscilla Barielle, dressed in an elegant bright red gown, sat at the head of the table. Her long red hair was styled into an elegant updo, and a pearl necklace sparkled around her neck. She radiated confidence and grandeur, which was necessary for a future queen. Priscilla was an arrogant, proud, and willful woman. She believed that the world existed for her convenience, and this belief was evident in all her behavior. Her goal today was to secure the support of influential aristocrats for the upcoming royal election.
Among the servants who were serving dishes and drinks stood out Aldebaran, known as Al. He was not only Priscilla's knight and bodyguard but also acted as a waiter to stay close and monitor the safety of his mistress. Despite his unusual role, his stocky body and numerous scars spoke of many battles he had fought. Al had lost his left arm in one of the battles and wore a stump covered with bandages instead of a prosthetic. His face was hidden by a black helmet with a red plume, giving him a mysterious and menacing appearance.
Al carefully served the dishes, his movements confident and precise, just as in battle. The guests, absorbed in discussions about politics and the upcoming election, paid no attention to him, but Al did not miss a single movement or gesture. Priscilla had often struck Al or ordered him to do something to amuse her, but today she needed him to maintain security and order.
Priscilla raised a glass of wine and smiled at her guests:
— Welcome, gentlemen. Today we are gathered here to discuss the future of our kingdom and my candidacy for the throne, — her voice was confident and authoritative.
Al, staying in the shadows, carefully monitored the development of events, ready to intervene at any moment. His gaze lingered on one of the guests, who seemed not entirely convinced by Priscilla's words. But Al remained calm, knowing that his presence alone was enough to maintain order.
Priscilla continued her speech, confidently and authoritatively explaining her plans and vision for the future.
— I am confident that under my rule, everyone will be able to get what they want, — Priscilla concluded. — Together, we will build a strong and prosperous kingdom.
The guests nodded, discussing among themselves what they had heard. Al, finishing his work, cast a final glance at Priscilla. He knew that her success depended not only on her words but also on his ability to protect her in any circumstance.
Priscilla Barielle's Estate, 4:34 PM
Al, simultaneously fulfilling the duties of a waiter and a guard, continued serving dishes and drinks, helping the servants cater to the guests. The banquet at Priscilla Barielle's estate, which had started at lunch, continued, and the guests, engrossed in discussing politics and the upcoming election, were enjoying the luxurious reception.
Al, always attentive to details, skillfully maneuvered between the tables, serving dishes and filling glasses. His presence, inspiring respect and confidence, did not go unnoticed. One of the guests, an aristocrat with a good-natured face, was watching him closely. This man, Lord Edwin Hartley, was known for his wisdom and experience in matters of the kingdom.
Lord Edwin was a man of about forty, with chestnut hair and a hint of gray at the temples. His light blue eyes, radiating kindness and insight, were framed by fine wrinkles, giving him the appearance of a wise and experienced man. He was dressed in an elegant dark blue suit with gold buttons and a white shirt. A brooch in the shape of his family's crest gleamed on his chest.
— Young man, — Lord Edwin addressed him as Al approached his table, — you have remarkable skill, and you carry yourself with such confidence. What is your name?
Al, slightly bowing his head, replied:
— My name is Aldebaran, but everyone calls me Al. I am here to serve and protect Lady Priscilla.
Lord Edwin smiled, noting that despite his combat skills and imposing appearance, Al was very polite and courteous.
— Pleased to meet you, Al. I see that you are not just a guard but a man with a wealth of experience, — he said, closely examining the scars and the stump where Al's left hand should have been.
Al nodded briefly, continuing to pour wine into the glasses:
— Your insight knows no bounds, Lord Edwin. I have been through a lot, and it helps me in my service.
The conversation continued, and gradually a friendly relationship developed between Al and Lord Edwin. Lord Edwin shared stories of his travels and experiences, and Al, in turn, recounted tales from his past. These conversations became a rare moment of communication for him, where he could feel not just like a bodyguard but also a man with his own history.
The waitresses, continuing to serve the guests, occasionally cast surprised glances at Al and Lord Edwin, who seemed to have found common ground. Priscilla, noticing this, merely smiled slightly, pleased with how well her knight was performing his duties.
Al continued his work, but now, knowing that he had a new friend and ally, he felt a little lighter. He still had much to do, but the support and friendly shoulder of Lord Edwin were the small things that made his service a bit brighter.
Commercial District Area, 5:41 PM
Jack Hale felt uneasy. He was even sweating from the tension as a diverse crowd gathered around him at the busy intersection. Men in pressed suits, women in elegant dresses, paupers in simple clothing, merchants with baskets of goods, and even knights in their white uniforms—all of them were rushing about their business. Jack could never have imagined that the people in this world would be so drastically different from him and his friends. These people stirred in him a vague sense of fear. After spending several hours here, he still hadn't gotten used to them and continued to listen and watch warily whenever he found himself among people. Outwardly, he maintained an unshakable calm, but inside, his nervousness was growing.
In one hand, he held the weapon he had created, a full-stocked Ithaca 37 with an extended 12-gauge magazine. The people standing nearby kept their eyes fixed on the road.
The scent emanating from the aristocrats and wealthy merchants irritated him. The sickly-sweet deceit of perfumes. However, most people smelled of their own sweat, especially the poor. These natural scents were familiar and calming to him, but throughout the day, he had rarely sensed the aromas of incense and perfume, surrounded mainly by the natural smells of commoners.
The crowd began to move, and the endless stream of people rushed in their directions. Jack lagged behind, letting them go ahead, ensuring he had a clear view.
He continued moving southwest. Passersby became fewer and fewer, and he could freely examine the carriages and dragon-drawn vehicles parked along the sidewalks. He needed a suitable carriage for his mission. Appearance didn't matter. The main thing was that the carriage didn't attract attention.
Jack limited his search to the outskirts. He wasn't planning on buying a carriage. Twice he was almost successful.
The first time, a dragon carriage caught his attention on a quiet, deserted street. He was about to act and approached it, but was scared off by the owner's children returning home. An hour later, at a construction site, he opened another carriage and reached for the dragon's harness when he suddenly heard approaching footsteps. He spent another five seconds trying to mount the dragon, but the situation was becoming dangerous due to the approaching people, and he had to flee. Unforeseen circumstances had prevailed again.
The sun was almost set as Jack finished inspecting the district. The effect of the stimulants injected into him before the mission was wearing off. The invigorating tension was subsiding, and fatigue was increasingly taking over.
"Move forward, soldier," he urged himself. "Act, don't relax. Continue scouting the area." He methodically scanned the territory with his eyes, mentally dividing it into sectors.
To the east—a deserted alley, no moving vehicles. From the southeast to the southwest stretched two-story buildings, most likely residential homes, many empty apartments. To the north—the street continued, no vehicles in sight... Between the northwest and northeast sectors—a construction site surrounded by a wooden fence. Approximately twenty thousand square meters. In the distance, several workers with shovels and pickaxes, as well as a couple of work carts used for transporting materials.
Suddenly, his heart clenched, and his palms became sweaty. He wanted to move on but couldn't. A red danger signal was pulsating alarmingly in his brain, but something seemed to draw him to the wasteland, preventing him from leaving. Memories? It seemed to him that this place reminded him of something from his past, overshadowed by an invisible mass of horror and pain. An illusion, no doubt. His vision darkened, fragments of memories obscured the peaceful city landscape: mutilated bodies, burning ruins. Jack took a deep breath, driving away the ghostly images. "Occupy your thoughts with something!" he ordered himself. What if the relocation had a detrimental effect on his mind, and this was the beginning of a personality split?
He remembered!
After hesitating for another second, Jack adjusted the belt under his cloak, shifted the bag to his other hand, and walked on. He forced the terrifying images into the farthest corner of his memory and locked them there. And he made himself think only about the carriages he encountered along the way.
At the end of the street, he spotted one that suited him. He circled around it, examining the dragon. The beast looked sturdy, and its harness was in good condition. The carriage was unremarkable, faded. All the better.
He approached the carriage, checking its condition. There was enough space inside, and it seemed to have been unused for a long time. Jack examined the dragon's harness, ensuring its sturdiness, and carefully took the reins in his hands. The dragon twitched restlessly, but Jack skillfully calmed it.
He climbed into the carriage, tossed his bag onto the bench, and made himself comfortable. Stroking the dragon's neck, he loosened the shoulder strap, freed the shotgun, and placed it next to him. Jack admired the carriage. There was enough space inside, and it seemed to have been unused for a long time.
He inhaled the scent of old leather and wood with pleasure. Here, he felt relatively safe. Leaning back, Jack settled comfortably on the bench. His body, constantly coiled like a spring ready to pounce, experienced a blissful relaxation of rest.
No way! He forced himself to straighten up. He emptied his pockets onto the bench: ammunition for his weapon and a few tools that might come in handy. Enough for the time being. At nine-fifteen in the morning, he had explored an abandoned forge where he found the necessary materials to create weapons and ammunition. From metal parts and springs, he assembled a full-stocked Ithaca 37 with an extended 12-gauge magazine. At ten in the morning, he bought lead for bullets and shells in local shops and workshops. He made gunpowder from coal, sulfur, and saltpeter, which he managed to obtain at the market and trading rows.
He emptied the canvas bag he had managed to stuff in a shabby little shop. The owner, an old man, never even looked up from his work. Out of the bag came a few pieces of bread, dried fruits, and jerky. Real food. He had tasted something like this once in his life. He remembered stretching out the last piece of meat for a long time until only a crumb was left. But here, he could eat as much as he wanted. He popped a piece of jerky into his mouth, chewed it, savoring the taste and aroma, and remembered the junk he was used to eating back There.
He leaned his head against the side of the carriage. The tempting cushion on the soft seat lured him into its gentle embrace, whispering the treacherous thought of momentary oblivion. And he thought again about how There, he couldn't afford many things that seemed so natural. Like sleeping peacefully.
He cast a tired glance at the construction site, where workers were toiling with earth and stones, creating noise and bustle. The hum grew louder—it echoed familiarly in Jack's mind. The ground trembled under the weight of blows and the movement of workers' tools.
Jack's gaze…
…Was captured by the giant, metal-glinting wheels of the carriages about forty meters away from him. The wheels moved relentlessly, grinding chunks of iron and wood, remnants of clothing, and bones.
Mountains of human bones covered the wasteland, dimly lit by the moon.
Charred bones, blackened by the fires of a nuclear war that had raged before Jack was born, lay in thick layers over vast areas. The hills of dead debris had become such a familiar feature of the landscape here that no one thought about what these mounds were made of.
Skulls' remains disappeared under the wheels of the carriages. Jack watched indifferently. The traces of that war, of which he knew only by hearsay, meant nothing to him. The toothless grin of a skull that was about to crumble, crushed by an iron behemoth, broke into a silent scream: "Your turn will come!" The scream was directed at him, at Jack. He turned away.
His face wasn't covered in scars back then. They would appear later. He had just turned sixteen.
The noise grew louder. The metallic screech pierced Jack's brain like a living creature from whose claws there was no escape.
A blinding ocean of light flooded the sky to the horizon. A fraction of a second separated the sudden flash from the thunder of explosions. The shells burst closer and closer, the ground around him heaved. The searchlights swept across the wasteland, probing for pockets of human resistance. In the next moment, everything that still breathed, moved, and fought would be destroyed by the machines.
Jack, crouched in the ruins, practically melted into the ground. The nauseating smell of burning human flesh filled the air. He suppressed the unbearable—suicidal—urge to run, digging deeper into the stinking mess.
"Fear is death," Jack told himself. "If you don't panic, you'll live."
The video link to the command post was interrupted. Fortunately, he still had his headphones and microphone. The radio conveyed the feverish cacophony of battle: curt commands, the roar of gunfire, the screams of the wounded, and desperate pleas. Send shells! Cover us with fire! Evacuate the wounded!
He turned around. Of the twelve soldiers in his unit, only one remained alive. Corporal Laura. A thin, exhausted sapper girl. She had recently turned fifteen. She hadn't strayed a step from the unit commander, as if he were her only hope of salvation.
Against the dark backdrop of the night sky, a predatory shadow slid by. The FI(Fire Installation) tower. The searchlights meticulously swept the ruins of houses. Jack checked the pulse meter. In his combat emitter «Westinghouse-M25» there was still one plasma charge left. He decided to shoot. At least take out the cameras on this bastard! Jack aimed his rifle at the monster's eyes, the infrared optical devices. He took aim and released a high-energy plasma shot. The FI's hypersensitive optics shattered into a colorful spray of fragments.
Jack and Laura managed to scramble out of the ruins a second before the return salvo turned their shelter into dust. Jack had taken out one camera. «No matter, I'll finish you off anyway,» — he whispered.
Jack retreated in short, swift dashes. The battle had caught up with him suddenly; he no longer remembered how it all began. Events flashed by in a frenzied blur, like a film reel running at enormous speed. He nearly tripped over a dead body. A boy of about ten, no older, was clutching an old M-16. A smoking round hole was visible on the child's chest. His frozen eyes stared at the sky. A graveyard of bodies! Some in uniform, some just in rags. Women, the elderly, children…
A devastating barrage of fire rolled through, scorching everything in its path. The battered earth trembled from the explosions.
Jack dropped like a stone into a dugout. The cramped hole was filled with people mad with terror. Hands clutched weapons in a death grip. Someone was sobbing. Or groaning. There were even children.
This was the army standing against the living nightmare.
But what the hell were they doing here? The area should have been completely cleared of people to give the demolition teams full freedom. Jack hadn't settled the score with the FI yet.
— Where's your commander? — Jack shouted.
The answer was written on their faces. He stayed above. Died in the fire or under the wheels of the machine.
— Get out of here! Quickly!
No one moved. Fear had crushed their will to resist. He pushed them, forcing them to rise, and kept shouting:
— Come on, run! The unit is regrouping at bunker twelve.
The people nodded obediently. The meaning of his words likely didn't reach them, but they scrambled out of the shelter, running somewhere. The night swallowed the retreating figures. Jack wasn't sure they would make it to the point he had indicated.
Peeking out from the shelter, he scanned the area. Where the hell did that damn machine go?
In the next second, the shelter was hit by an explosion. The FI, unnoticed by Jack, had launched a giant plasma strike. Stones, planks, and scraps of tarpaulin flew into the air. Jack was hurled by the blast wave onto a concrete slab, and he lost consciousness.
He woke up in a deep crater. He was lying on his back. His head was splitting with unbearable pain. In helpless rage, he ground his teeth.
Laura was bent over him. She was shouting something, pointing at his helmet. He couldn't hear anything. A deafening ring filled his ears.
He sat up. Tore off his helmet. So that's it! It was punctured. He tossed it aside and fitted the headphones to his head. «Why the hell are you stuck there like a piece of crap? Come on, get over here!» — he mentally beckoned the enemy machine.
They crawled under the cover of a reinforced concrete slab sticking out of the ground where a house once stood. The machine continued its pursuit. First, the pile of debris lit up with the dead flashes of the searchlights, then the steel behemoth itself appeared. The guns on its towers rotated evenly, raining down a barrage of deadly fire on everything within a few miles.
Jack pulled the backpack off Laura's back and took out two cylindrical anti-tank mines. One for himself, the other for the girl. The FI crept closer. It was now so close that if not for the constant roar, they would have heard the grinding of the guns as they turned on their axes. Jack took a deep breath. Calmly! His fingers automatically felt the mine's casing. Range limit overridden. Remove the safety pin! The machine was just a few yards from them, the roar of its engines escalating to a deafening howl. Jack saw only the treads before him. Everything else ceased to exist. Die, you bastard!
He darted out of the shadow into the illuminated space and placed the charge in the path of the advancing monster. The fire-spewing behemoth thundered over the mine without touching it. After passing through the utterly destroyed buildings, where people still hid and, against all logic, continued to resist, the machine slowed down and began to awkwardly turn.
Ducking behind a pile of stones, Jack glimpsed Laura slipping and almost falling, but she didn't drop the mine. The explosive device had been set, the timer was ticking away the seconds.
— Throw it now! — Jack bellowed at the top of his lungs.
The building's skeleton shielded the tank from her view as it maneuvered, trying to find the most advantageous angle of attack. Now, for Laura's projectile to hit the target, she would have to run out of cover and throw the mine under the FI's concentrated fire.
She'd ruined everything! Laura glanced at her commander. She realized she had missed her chance. The girl climbed onto the concrete slab that protected them, and standing tall, she hurled the projectile, aiming for the undercarriage. She didn't have time to duck. The flame that burst from the machine slashed across her chest like a fiery blade. Without a sound, she fell. Her body dissolved into a cloud of crimson mist. Blood-red crystals sprayed onto Jack's shirt, splattering his face and hands. He didn't touch what was left of Laura.
His thoughts would return to her later.
The mine Jack had placed exploded first, striking the more vulnerable rear part of the machine. The powerful impact drove the shattered tracks into the body. One of the rotating turrets was breached, and the tons of ammunition inside it erupted into a massive inferno. Another explosion shook the fuel tanks, and the fifteen-meter-tall armored giant, the most advanced killing machine, convulsed as it was engulfed in blazing lava. The mine Laura threw exploded before reaching its target, but its flash added the final stroke to the hellish carnival.
The FI, trembling, began to disintegrate, its final convulsions triggering a fiery wave that flooded the sky from edge to edge, as if a supernova had suddenly been born over the dead, scorched earth. Jack, mesmerized, watched the seething sea of purifying flames.
Now — to reach the assembly point in Dougeni. He was beginning to choke on the smoke that filled the air. Everything was burning: metal, rebar, people.
Amid the ruins was a dragon-drawn cart, with two stunned, miraculously surviving people inside. He took the reins and spurred the cart forward. A flying hunter was circling above them. But after a while, the target slipped away from its pursuer, lost in the smoke and roar of explosions. Jack drove the cart through the black wastelands stretching for tens of kilometers. There had once been streets here.
The flying hunter tracked them and dived at a forty-degree angle. The turbines roared at full power, the searchlights locked onto the moving cart, and the combat ship unleashed a precise plasma volley. The cart crumpled like an empty tin can, and the next salvo split it in half, tossing it into the air.
A piece of twisted metal pinned Jack to his seat. Blood filled his eyes. He managed to see that the fighter slumped against him had lost the upper half of his torso. A tight knot formed in Jack's throat, and his whole body shuddered. He tried to move. A searing pain shot through his left shoulder. Flames licked the warped armor, creeping closer to the helplessly sprawled man. He struggled with all his remaining strength, but couldn't budge. The disgusting smell of burning spread around — it was his hair burning. He winced at the distant, agonizing, inhuman scream. Something familiar echoed in the voice of the one who screamed so horribly. It was him…
Jack opened his eyes. He didn't remember grabbing the shotgun that lay on the bench, or chambering a round. He was gasping for breath, sweat pouring down his body. In his mind, still not free from the oppressive visions, a persistent question surfaced: «Where am I?» — a question he was used to asking himself upon waking.
His gaze flicked over the soft upholstery of the cart, lingering in surprise on the provisions and tools. He was in an unfamiliar city. MISSION. Jack looked at the small hourglass he found in an abandoned shop. He had only slept for a few minutes.
Jack was slowly coming to his senses. The dream, which had forced him to live three minutes in colossal mental and physical tension, was fading, being forgotten. The harmless dragon-drawn cart was still plowing through the construction site, where there was nothing but green grass. It wasn't in this world. The torn bodies, the infernos, the death-dealing machines existed only in his mind.
He pushed the memories away.
The Estate of Priscilla Bariel, 5:58 PM
Al was finishing up cleaning the hall after an important meeting organized by Priscilla Bariel. The guests had already left, and the room was quiet. Priscilla sat at the end of the hall, engrossed in reading a book. Her elegant bright red dress highlighted her grandeur, and her red hair gleamed in the candlelight.
— Al, come here, — her voice unexpectedly broke the silence.
Al, placing the last of the glasses, approached his mistress.
— Princess, is something wrong? — he asked, trying to understand the reason for her summons.
Priscilla slowly set the book aside and looked at him with a hint of disdain.
— I just received some interesting news, — she began, her voice cold and confident. — It concerns your friend, the speculator, Jack Martin.
Al tensed, unsure of what to expect.
— Well then, — Priscilla continued, her gaze growing even colder, — that pathetic fool is no more. He was found brutally murdered. It seems someone decided he knew or talked too much.
Al frowned, realizing the seriousness of the situation.
Priscilla gazed at him thoughtfully.
— In the four corners of the world, where the land ends, there is a stream of water that washes everything away in its path. In other words, the Great Waterfall, — her voice was tinged with contemplation. She narrowed her eyes slightly, as if testing his reaction. — Sometimes there are people who claim to have come from beyond. Usually, it's a lie. But you're different.
She then smiled venomously and added:
— So, clown, whether today's events are a coincidence or not, consider yourself already out of the land of the living.
Al nodded, taking her words into account, but inside, a storm of emotions raged. He clenched his only fist, trying to maintain outward composure. Inwardly, he was ready for any challenges that might arise.
Priscilla returned to her book, satisfied with his reaction.
GREEN WINDS STREET, 6:12 PM
The Terminator pressed the magazine release, discarded the spent clip, and reloaded his weapon. He stood over the bloodied body of Thomas Hunt, which was still convulsing in its final spasms of agony, and raised his pistol again, ready to fire another shot if necessary.
There was no need to fire again.
His gaze fell on the table where several documents lay. Among them was a letter addressed to "Thomas Hunt," with the name and address clearly indicated. This confirmed that he had killed the right person.
He formulated his search strategy. He would return to his base to rearm and then conduct the final operation. Of the three targets identified in the archive records, two had already been eliminated. The last target remained — Aldebaran, living in Priscilla Bariel's palace.
The Terminator resolutely stepped out into the smoldering evening, preparing for the final mission.
THE ROYAL CAPITAL OF LUGNICA, 6:31 PM
Sir Edmund Theodore, a knight of the Royal Guard, exited the meeting hall. The corridors of the administration building were bustling, as usual, at this time of day. Sir Edmund, a man in his early forties, confidently walked towards his office, holding a scroll that had just been handed to him by a messenger.
Captain Halfried Stern approached him, visibly concerned.
— Sir, we have alarming news, — he began, handing Edmund another scroll. — It concerns the two recent murders that took place in the capital.
Edmund unrolled the scroll and began to read. Inside was information about two brutal murders, each carried out with frightening precision.
— Thomas Hunt and Jack Martin, — Edmund said, scanning the records. — Both killed by some strange and unknown weapon. The wounds on their bodies are precise and deep, as if from a strike, but without any traces of a blade or arrow.
Captain Stern nodded, confirming his commander's words.
— Yes, sir. And the strangest part — both murders were executed with cold calculation. Jack Martin was killed by a blow to the head and then multiple strikes to the chest, as if the attacker wanted to make sure he was dead. The same pattern with Thomas Hunt — multiple strikes to the chest and head. These cases are clearly not coincidental.
Edmund took a deep breath, realizing that this matter might have deeper roots.
— What else was found at the crime scenes? — he asked.
— In both cases, personal letters were found that confirmed their identities, — Stern replied, handing Edmund a scroll with recorded data. — However, the weapon used to inflict the blows has not been found. And, sir, the wounds... they don't resemble anything we've seen before. It's clearly not a sword or a spear.
Stern handed Edmund another scroll with rough sketches of the crime scenes. Each showed the bodies of the victims with multiple wounds.
— Here, sir, — Stern said, pointing to the sketches. — Our artists have tried to depict what they saw at the scene. The blows were delivered with such precision and force that ordinary weapons could hardly have left such marks. And look at the wound patterns — they're identical. The same weapon, the same actions.
Edmund carefully studied the sketches, his thoughts beginning to form a coherent picture. He understood that these murders were not random and that they were carried out by the same person.
— We must find out who is behind this, — he finally said. — And do so as quickly as possible, before the killer strikes again.
Captain Stern nodded, recognizing the gravity of the situation.
— Yes, sir. We've already begun the investigation, but we have no clear leads yet.
Edmund looked at the sketches again, then set them aside. He had a long evening of thinking and planning ahead.
— I don't like this, Halfried, — he finally said, rising from his desk. — We must be ready for anything.
Captain Stern nodded, understanding that the case might be much more complex than they had anticipated.
PRISCILLA BARIEL'S ESTATE, 7:57 PM
Al, or Aldebaran, as he was known in other circles, was cleaning up the remnants of the dishes after a long day. An important meeting with a banquet had just taken place at Priscilla Bariel's estate, and the guests had only recently left. He was tired, but he tried not to show it.
Priscilla, sitting in her chair by the window, was flipping through the pages of a book, but her gaze kept drifting to Al's figure.
— Al, — she suddenly said, catching his attention, — today has been a difficult day, hasn't it?
— Yes, Princess, — Al agreed, stopping and straightening up. — The guests were demanding, and pleasing them was no easy task.
Priscilla closed the book, her eyes meeting his gaze.
— You did well. However, I won't be needing your services for the rest of the evening, — she said with a slight smile. — You deserve a break. You may go to the city, unwind after such a long day.
She walked over to the table and picked up a gold coin bearing the image of the First Sword Master. Handing it to Al, she added:
— Here, take this. It's for the evening.
Al accepted the coin, a little surprised, but he didn't ask any questions.
— Thank you, Princess, — he said, bowing.
Priscilla, not taking her eyes off him, continued:
— Take this and don't think of it as just a gift. The evening might offer you more than you expect. Use this coin wisely, and perhaps it will be the key to something greater. Or… just spend it on drinks. Your choice, clown. But remember: sometimes even the smallest decision can change your entire life.
Al pondered her words but decided to ask:
— Princess, do you really think something might happen to me?
Priscilla smirked and leaned back in her chair.
— Al, in this world, every day brings surprises, and not all of them are pleasant. Anything can happen to you, especially if you think that fate favors you. But remember, luck is a fickle lady. Today you're on top, but tomorrow you might find yourself beneath. So be wise and don't test her patience.
She narrowed her eyes slightly, as if contemplating.
— But then again, do as you wish, — she added with a venomous smile. — But remember: be careful, and don't forget that every action you take could be your last.
Al felt a chill from her words but didn't show it. Bowing once more, he said:
— I will take your words to heart, Princess. Thank you for your concern.
Priscilla, returning to her book, nodded:
— Don't stay out too long, clown.
With these words, Al quietly left the room, leaving Priscilla alone with her thoughts, and headed towards the city, pondering her warning and what might lie ahead.
Al approached the dragon-drawn carriage tethered at the gates of Priscilla Bariel's estate. He threw on his cloak and carefully mounted the dragon's back, preparing to head into the city. The events of the day had left him deep in thought, and he decided to take the opportunity to unwind. Turning his head, he glanced at the dark dragon carriage standing a little farther away. It looked empty and abandoned, like many other carriages in this part of the city.
The dragon rumbled softly, and Al loosened the reins, readying himself for the ride. The wind began to whip at his cloak as the dragon slowly started to move. Al guided the carriage through the narrow streets of Lugnica, allowing his thoughts to drift far away.
He didn't notice that someone was lurking in the shadow of the dragon carriage. Jack Hale, an experienced tracker, sat inside, hidden from prying eyes. As soon as Al entered the main street, Hale, quickly and silently mounting his own carriage, directed it after Al.
Every step Al took, every turn his dragon made, was under Hale's watchful eye. Al, lost in his thoughts, didn't realize he was being followed. Hale moved precisely and silently, not drawing any attention to himself. He followed Al closely, waiting for the right moment to act.
THE ROYAL CAPITAL OF LUGNICA, 7:44 PM
Sir Edmund Theodore, a knight of the Royal Guard, opened the door to the meeting hall and was immediately confronted by a group of people standing at the entrance. These were not ordinary citizens but representatives of various guilds and interested organizations, clearly seeking firsthand information. In the crowd, Sir Edmund recognized a few faces — local chroniclers and heralds, always eager for news.
Edmund cast a stern look at them. Before he could take a step toward his office, several people tried to push their way toward him, insisting on asking questions. He raised his hand, calling for silence, but they didn't relent, bombarding him with questions about the recent murders in the capital.
— Sir Edmund, what do you know about the brutal murders that recently occurred? — shouted one of the heralds, trying to catch the knight's attention. The tone of his voice and the manner of his question implied that Edmund should already be aware of these events. Edmund simply tensed, feeling his irritation rising.
— No comment, — he said firmly but calmly, attempting to make his way through the crowd.
The noise behind him grew louder. Everyone was trying to outshout the other, but no one dared to come too close. Sir Edmund felt his patience wearing thin but decided to give them one last chance.
— Come on, Sir Edmund! Speak plainly. We all understand you're busy with your duties, but we need to know what's going on too! — someone in the crowd shouted.
Edmund stopped at the threshold of his office, his gaze heavy as a stone. He took a deep breath and gave the crowd a long, scrutinizing look. Silence fell. The heralds and chroniclers realized he was about to say something important.
— You see this door? — he said coldly. — This is my office. I'm here all the time. If there's time, come in.
And before they could respond, he slammed the door shut behind him, cutting off all the noise from outside. «Good thing the walls are thick,» he thought, savoring the silence of his office.
Captain Halfried Stern, already engrossed in studying documents, looked up and glanced at his commander with an understanding smile. They both knew they would spend the entire evening in intense work.
Edmund sat down at his desk, emptied a few parchments from his pocket, and began reviewing them. At the same time, he thought about the two victims — Jack Martin and Thomas Hunt, who had been brutally murdered on the streets of the capital. These murders had shaken them all, but so far, they had no leads on who might be the next victim, if there was one at all.
— Have you found out anything? — Edmund asked, not looking up from the papers.
— We've checked several locations, but so far, nothing, — Stern replied without taking his eyes off his notes.
Edmund set aside the documents and once again plunged into deep thought. He knew they didn't have much time. Any delay could cost another life, but they didn't know who the next victim might be.
— Send men out into the streets, — he finally ordered.
Stern nodded, understanding that this was not a request but a command. All their experience and knowledge had to be mobilized to find the killer.
— I've already sent out patrols, sir. They're checking all possible hideouts and questioning witnesses. But so far, no leads.
Edmund frowned, feeling the internal tension. He knew that not only their reputation but the safety of the entire capital was at stake. He couldn't afford to make a mistake.
— Keep me informed. Every detail. We must be prepared for anything, — he instructed, not hiding his impatience.
Stern returned to his work, while Edmund, deep in thought, made a decision — they needed to make an announcement to the city to warn everyone about the potential threat. Perhaps it would help prevent further victims.
— I'll make an announcement to the city. Let everyone be prepared, — he said, rising from his chair.
Captain Stern looked at him with some doubt but knew it was pointless to argue.
— If everyone hears us in time, it might save another life.
Edmund adjusted his armor and headed for the door, ready to address the citizens of the capital with a warning of the impending danger.
— How do I look? — he asked Stern before stepping out.
Captain Stern smirked, glancing at his commander.
— Like a true knight, sir.
— I hope so, — Edmund nodded, opening the door with the resolve of a man ready to face any challenges.
THE ROYAL CAPITAL OF LUGNICA, CENTER, "GOLDEN DRAGON" CAFE, 08:08 PM
Al, also known as Aldebaran, was sitting in the "Golden Dragon" cafe, trying to relax after a long day. He had chosen a table by the window, offering a view of the evening bustle in the capital. His dinner — a simple dish of roasted meat with vegetables — was already in front of him, but his appetite had vanished. The thoughts of Priscilla's recent words were troubling him.
Al had learned about the death of his friend Jack Martin from Priscilla herself, and the news still lingered in his mind. Now, sitting in this lively cafe, he was acutely aware that the world around him had become much more dangerous than he had imagined.
When a waitress approached his table, Al noticed her nervousness. She placed the plate before him and quickly left, leaving him alone with his heavy thoughts. He started to eat, but the food seemed to stick in his throat.
Muffled voices came from the neighboring table. Two men were discussing something, and Al couldn't resist eavesdropping.
— They say Thomas Hunt was killed too, — said one of the men, lowering his voice. — Just like that speculator Jack Martin. Both claimed to have come from beyond the Great Waterfall.
Al tensed up upon hearing these words. His hands trembled as he realized that Thomas Hunt, his other acquaintance, was also dead. He had known Thomas as a calm and reasonable man, but he too had perished, and for the same reason. These murders were clearly connected, and now Al could no longer ignore the obvious — someone was deliberately and methodically killing people who claimed to have come from the world beyond the Great Waterfall.
"Could someone already know about me?" — this thought wrapped around his mind like a snake, causing a wave of panic. Al began feverishly contemplating: if the killer had already reached Thomas and Jack, it meant they could find him too. It felt as if the walls of the cafe were closing in, suffocating him with fear.
He cast a quick glance out the window and noticed a dark figure on the opposite side of the street. The person stood in the shadows, face hidden under a hood, but Al could distinctly feel their cold, piercing gaze fixed on him.
"They're already here," Al thought, and fear finally overtook him.
Unable to stay in the cafe any longer, he quickly stood up, threw a coin on the table, and made his way through the room, pausing at the door before stepping outside.
The killer could be waiting for him anywhere. Oh, God, he knows his address. He might be circling around the princess's estate or lurking… over there, on the other side of the street. Waiting for him to come out. Where's that "Black Lute"? He hesitated by the cafe windows, unsure which way to go. He scanned the faces of the passersby. No one seemed suspicious. But how can one recognize what death looks like? What if it's him? The poorly dressed man across the street was trying to stay in the shadow of the trees. A long coat and a young, gaunt face. He wasn't in a hurry; he was waiting… for him. He felt the man tense up. What a heavy, grim gaze! No! He hurriedly walked away. Will he follow him? If he turns around and sees him, what will that mean? A coincidence? Death? Or just that he was succumbing to paranoia? He glanced over his shoulder. The man was nowhere to be seen. Where did he go?
"I'm losing my mind," he told himself, but his legs were already leading him toward the "Black Lute". One thought kept circling in his head: he had to be careful, because he could be hunted, just like his friends.
He stopped and looked around.
A few people passed by, absorbed in their own affairs, but his attention was caught by a figure in a dark cloak appearing in the distance. Al's heart started to race. The person in the cloak was following him. Al felt a chill of fear run down his spine. It seemed that this person had been tracking him for a long time.
Al quickened his pace, trying to stay in the shadows, but the dark figure kept up, moving at the same speed. Al started running, feeling the fear grip his mind. He desperately searched for refuge, and finally, his gaze fell on the sign of the "Black Lute" bar. The reddish glow of the sign illuminated the pavement before him.
The music coming from inside was deafeningly loud, the hum of voices mingling with the rhythm of drums and lutes. Al felt that he had to take cover inside, blend in with the crowd, and shake off the feeling of being watched. He cast one last glance over his shoulder. The pursuer was closer than Al had expected, his face half-hidden by the hood, eyes intently following his every move.
Upon entering the bar, Al immediately felt the noise and music envelop him, swallowing him in a chaos of sounds. He made his way to a far corner of the room, trying to disappear among the patrons. His breathing was erratic, and his heart pounded in his ears, but the sense of danger didn't fade. He felt that he was still being watched, even if the figure in the cloak had vanished from sight.
Meanwhile, his pursuer slowed down near the bar's entrance, as if contemplating whether to go inside. He looked towards the entrance but didn't follow Al in, instead slipping into the shadows of the nearby alley.
Al remained inside, trying not to draw attention to himself. He knew that the danger was still close, that perhaps his origin from beyond the Great Waterfall was already known. Al understood that he had to stay alert, or he would face the same fate as his friends. He withdrew into himself, continuing to observe his surroundings and refusing to let fear take hold of him.
Hale hadn't expected this. Al was far more vulnerable than he had anticipated. A regular man, confused, surrounded by unseen danger, but not fully aware of it. He walked, lost in thought, hiding his face under a helmet, as if trying to shield himself from the world. But it was useless. Hale recalled the description of Al's appearance he had heard from passersby earlier that day. It all matched. But something inside Hale protested against this mission.
Fine, he wasn't sent to ponder, but to complete a task. No matter who Al was, he needed to be saved. Time was running out. The sooner, the better! Hale promised himself he would complete the mission, and nothing in the world could stop him.
He felt Al beginning to panic. The fear gripping Al was transmitting to Hale, like current through a wire. Al quickened his pace, then almost broke into a run. He was trying to escape, and it was limiting Hale's ability to observe. Hale had to pick up his speed to avoid losing sight of him.
When Al disappeared behind the doors of the noisy bar, Hale froze for a moment, experiencing confusion. He repeated the instructions to himself. Everything was going according to plan. His first instinct was to follow Al immediately, but he restrained himself. No improvisation. He was ordered not to reveal himself until the right moment. He needed to keep moving as if nothing had happened. To the first corner, then back on Al's trail.
THE ESTATE OF PRISCILLA BARIEL, 08:11 PM
Silence enveloped the estate of Priscilla Bariel. The knights who usually patrolled the grounds were nowhere to be seen. All the guards were occupied with other tasks, leaving the entrances to the estate unwatched. From the dense shadow of a nearby tree, a massive figure emerged silently — the Terminator.
He scanned the area, assessing the situation. The lack of security worked to his advantage, simplifying his mission. His eyes swept over the windows on the second floor, behind which his target might be located.
The Terminator approached the massive doors leading inside. The doors were made of sturdy oak, reinforced with metal fittings. Breaking through such doors without noise would be difficult, and any disturbance could alert those inside.
Circling the estate, the Terminator carefully inspected the windows and walls, searching for the best way to infiltrate. He knew that at this stage, any small detail could be crucial.
THE "BLACK LUTE" BAR, 08:12 PM
Al was afraid to step outside. His dragon waited in the crowded square nearby, but he knew that a pursuer might be lurking beyond the bar's doors. The music in the bar was loud, but not loud enough to drown out conversations, and Al decided he needed to contact Priscilla immediately. He approached the cashier, a pretty girl with soft features and shining eyes that gave her a special charm.
— I need to use your Communication Mirror, — Al requested in a trembling voice.
The girl, sensing his anxiety, pointed to a magical mirror mounted on a column in the back of the room.
— Five silver coins, — she said in a stern but melodic voice, referring to the coins with the image of the Sage.
Al nervously rummaged through his pocket and tossed five silver coins onto the counter before hurrying to the mirror. The spacious hall was filled with people who were animatedly discussing their affairs, enjoying the music played on lutes and drums. The bar's decor, with its metal and wooden elements, completed the rugged style characteristic of this establishment.
Al carefully made his way through the crowd. Suddenly, a bald man appeared from the dim light, roughly grabbing his arm and trying to pull him into a circle of dancers. In the light of the lamps, his face seemed distorted, like a skull with empty eye sockets and a ghastly grin. Al shuddered in fear but mustered all his strength to break free, leaping toward the nearest table. When he glanced back, the light fell on the man's face again, and it returned to its normal appearance. Biting his lip, Al continued toward the mirror.
Finally reaching the Communication Mirror, he glanced around to make sure he wasn't being followed, and cautiously touched its surface, summoning Priscilla.
THE ESTATE OF PRISCILLA BARIEL, 08:14 PM
One of Priscilla's guards, named Grayson, had just returned to his room after a long day of duty. He removed his heavy armor and collapsed onto the bed, feeling the exhaustion slowly consuming him. The cool night air drifted in through the open window, slightly cooling his overheated body. He lay there, listening to the sounds of the night, allowing himself a moment to relax.
Suddenly, the silence was broken by a barely perceptible sound, like a metal chain catching on something. Grayson sat up, straining to see into the dim corners of the room. He thought the sound was coming from outside, possibly from the balcony. Rising slowly, he slipped on a light tunic and cautiously approached the door.
As he carefully opened the door, a powerful blow struck him. The man who suddenly emerged from the shadows was large, significantly bigger than Grayson himself, and moved with frightening speed and precision. In the dim torchlight illuminating the corridor, Grayson barely had time to notice the glint of a blade before he was thrown back into the room.
Hitting the floor, Grayson scrambled to his feet, grabbed a heavy bronze lamp from the table, and, discarding the lampshade, raised it above his head, ready to defend himself.
— Hey you, don't come any closer, or I'll kill you! — he shouted, trying to mask his fear with a voice filled with bravado.
The intruder, whom Grayson realized would not be stopped by threats, advanced. His face remained in the shadows, but his lifeless eyes stared directly at Grayson. Grayson swung with all his might, but the assailant easily deflected the blow and gripped the guard's arm holding the lamp as if with iron tongs.
Grayson felt himself being lifted off the floor and thrown with incredible force. He slammed into the wall, then into a cabinet, and crashed to the ground, winded. Pain shot through his body, but he knew he couldn't give up. Summoning his last reserves of strength, he sprang to his feet and charged at the attacker again, but his strike was once again easily deflected.
The Terminator, feeling no hesitation, continued his attack. Grayson clutched at the hand holding the knife, trying to push it away, but his efforts were futile. The Terminator possessed inhuman strength, and his blow was like that of a hydraulic hammer.
When Grayson realized he couldn't break free, he used the only thing he had left—his resolve. He knew he had to protect the estate and his mistress. With a cry of desperation, he lunged at the killer again, but was sent flying, smashing through the glass door leading to the balcony.
Shards of glass rained down on his face, and blood streamed down his cheeks. But even in this state, he managed to stand, continuing to fight for his life. His broken knee buckled, and he shifted his weight to the other leg, barely able to move around the room.
The Terminator indifferently watched as Grayson, with his last ounce of strength, tried to attack him again. With cold precision, the Terminator deflected the blow, and Grayson collapsed to the floor, no longer able to continue the fight.
The world slowly faded before his eyes, and darkness began to engulf his consciousness. The last thing he saw was Priscilla's face showing no fear, only cold calculation, before he was completely swallowed by darkness.
Priscilla sat in her favorite chair by the window, flipping through the pages of an ancient book. The soft candlelight illuminated her graceful features, and a quiet, giggling sound occasionally interrupted the silence. She found something amusing in her reading, and her quiet laughter filled the room.
Suddenly, her amusement was interrupted by an unfamiliar noise coming from outside. It was a loud crunch, as if something was breaking, followed by… thuds and the sounds of a struggle. She frowned, listening closely. The noise grew louder, and it was clearly coming from the corridor, just beyond her room's door.
Priscilla closed the book and stood up, displeased that her evening had been disturbed. Her light steps were barely audible as she approached the door. She flung it open, and a terrifying scene unfolded before her.
Grayson, one of her loyal guards, lay bleeding on the floor, struggling to breathe, desperately trying to stand. Her gaze immediately fell on the tall figure standing nearby—a stranger whose eyes were devoid of life and whose movements were too quick and precise to be human.
Priscilla coldly assessed the situation. Grayson, with his remaining strength, grabbed a sword and attempted to attack the stranger, but the latter easily intercepted the weapon and squeezed Grayson's hand, forcing him to drop the sword. A moment later, the guard was thrown back, crashing into the wall.
The stranger, clearly a soulless killer, did not stop. He advanced toward Priscilla, but his steps were calm, without a trace of haste. Priscilla took a step back, but her face showed no fear, only cold calculation.
— Interesting… — she murmured quietly, watching the approaching enemy.
She quickly assessed her options. Priscilla knew that brute force wouldn't win here. She could try to flee, but her pride wouldn't allow her to be a hunted victim.
As the stranger closed in to a dangerous distance, Priscilla made her decision. She focused, summoning her power, intending to call forth the Yan Sword of Volakia. The air around her began to glow, energy building, and the sword almost took shape in her hands. A bright light filled the room, and the blade, blazing like the sun, began to manifest in her palms.
But at that moment, the stranger, as if anticipating her actions, drew his weapon. It was a strange object, unlike any swords or bows she had encountered before. He coldly and methodically aimed it at her.
The first shot rang out, shattering the night's silence. Priscilla felt a searing pain tear through her body. In that instant, the sword, which was almost fully formed, began to evaporate, its light dimming and dissipating.
She tried to maintain her focus, but several more shots followed, each precise and lethal. With each shot, mana rapidly drained from her body, and the light of the sword faded more and more. The blade that could have destroyed the enemy completely vanished, dissolving into the air.
Priscilla, feeling her strength leaving her, cast a final glance at her killer. Her lips moved, but only a faint sigh emerged instead of words. The Yan Sword finally disappeared, leaving her unarmed and defenseless.
The Terminator coldly approached her, completing his mission. The last thing Priscilla saw were bright sparks reflected in the communication mirror before her body, like a broken doll, collapsed to the floor. The world slowly dimmed around her, and Priscilla, feeling the darkness of death engulfing her, sank into silence.
TO BE COUNTINUED