Metropol Restaurant, Saint Petersburg
In a VIP room designed for fifty, only two men sat.
Richly but discreetly dressed, they deftly wielded cutlery, leisurely savoring appetizers, occasionally downing small glasses of icy "Imperial Special" vodka.
"Heard about the Galaktionov estate?" asked the older man, gray-haired but still in excellent shape for his age.
"Of course, it's my job," nodded the younger, though still middle-aged, with a predatory wolf-like gaze and pale pupils that often made others look away.
"Will you handle it?" the first pressed. "Odd situation. I thought we'd settled everything."
"Agreed, it's strange," the second nodded, spearing a translucent slice of smoked sturgeon. "I'll dig into it, but I can't 'handle' it yet. After our last job, the Imperial Guard's been tailing me."
"You're used to it, aren't you?" the first smiled. "Professional hazard, right?"
Still chewing, the younger grabbed the frosted decanter and poured another round.
"Cheers!"
They drank and quickly snacked on tiny canapés with white beluga caviar, perfectly timed.
"True," the second nodded. "But there's too much weirdness with this young Galaktionov. He shouldn't exist. At all."
"Don't care," the first sneered, far from nobly. "The Galaktionov estate is mine. I've got a buyer, and the resale will net a tidy profit. Your cut's substantial, by the way."
"I'll deal with it," the second grumbled, clearly unaccustomed to being pushed.
"Good," the first rang a small silver bell. "Time for the main course…"
---
"Next… Galaktionov!" roared Instructor Afanasy, a 3rd-Class Slayer. "Move it!"
Damn, it was so nice lying on the grass, watching clouds. But no, my turn for sparring. A core part of training to reveal a young Slayer's potential and show instructors what they've got.
Why bother when I'm here for just a week, unlike the others, stuck for three months minimum?
"Come on, dead man, go!" someone from my cohort shouted.
It's my third day, and this is my first sparring. They pitted me against a young, noble aristocrat with a Water Gift, supposedly no pushover. Likely an Apprentice, but aristocrats rarely spill details.
I stepped into the ring, faced him, and lazily raised my hands, signaling disinterest.
My attitude pissed him off.
"Can I get another opponent, not this loser? I want a fight," he scoffed to the instructor, sparking laughter.
Andrey didn't laugh.
I spotted Helga, sitting on a soft mat, taking notes for another group's lecture. Outdoor training was prioritized—better than stuffy classrooms.
"Like there's anyone worth fighting," I yawned, stretching until my joints cracked.
"Girls! Save your posturing for the barracks. START!" Our instructor had a sense of humor, but his head wasn't quite right.
I didn't know my opponent's name and hadn't mingled much. I kept to myself, though Andrey sometimes tagged along.
I ducked a water blade by crouching, sidestepped a water spear, and dodged several more. Once, I had to jump a blade—it wouldn't kill but could break bones. I didn't bother with armor, seeing how inexperienced he was. Frustrated by his failed attacks, he closed in.
He was serious, clearly trained in hand-to-hand before mastering his techniques. The bastard aimed for my jaw. Too bad—I deflected every punch with my palm or blocked with my leg.
He got angrier, about to boil over like a kettle. Maybe I shouldn't have shown off? He attacked; I just defended, looking bored.
But everything ends, including my patience. I'd had enough.
I feinted a punch to his face, which he dodged with a smirk, aiming a side blow. He ran right into my spinning kick to his stomach. His armor shredded like paper, and he collapsed, clutching his side.
Oops… nearly crushed his kidney. Damn, I overdid it—too much force, plus technique.
Honestly, I hate sparring. My past life trained me to kill, not play-fight for "fun." Kindergarten…
It was a solid hit, and the instructor stopped the fight.
"Got it…" he drawled, eyeing me. "Galaktionov's bored. Hey, Petrov!" he called to another instructor training an older group. "Lend me one of your Warriors."
"Helga or Pavel?" Petrov replied promptly.
"No sparring with Helga," I protested. "I don't hurt girls—I love them."
"Look at this guy," Afanasy grinned, taking it as a challenge. "Send both!"
And they did. Pavel and Helga faced me.
When did she become a Warrior? No Lineage ring, so she's not noble. Tough to rank up without backing.
Maybe she serves a Lineage with their support. But why no Lineage emblem on her clothes? Servants always wear them.
At the signal, they rushed me. The instructor banned ranged attacks to avoid accidentally killing me. My Gift's rank is unconfirmed, and no one knows its nature.
I'm keeping it that way—let me be the dark horse. Truth is, I don't fully understand my Gift. Back home, Gift rituals were pointless, and here, I'm not used to their classifications. I'm from another world.
Pavel unleashed rapid, Gift-enhanced strikes, wearing light armor. I didn't fully charge mine to avoid tipping my hand.
Helga circled like a cat, trying to flank me. I deliberately let Pavel's headshot land, and she pounced, aiming to shatter my armor and knock me out. What did I do to her?
Not a cat—a snake. She sprang onto my back, coiling her limbs for a chokehold. Pavel was supposed to finish it, but he tripped, his strike missing. His nose met my Gift-enhanced knee. His armor broke, snot flew, and he crumpled, blood splattering the training ground.
"Bunny, so eager to hug me you couldn't wait? I'd rather take you out somewhere nicer," I whispered.
Poor thing strained to breach my armor, which I subtly reinforced.
"Alexander's done for," someone wrote me off. "No escaping that hold."
I noticed a spirited guy with long hair tied in a red ribbon.
"Know the problem with holds like this? Or fighting girls in general?" I turned to him, ignoring the girl clinging to me.
"Enlighten me, great Galaktionov, soon to be a limp carcass on this soft grass!" the guy quipped.
"Yeah, enlighten us," Helga chimed in, my words getting to her.
She pumped more power into her limbs, but I matched it, bolstering my armor.
"Girls don't always go all out, and they overthink," I said, playing to the crowd. "In a real fight, this could kill me, and dying sucks… So…"
I broke her hold and… kissed her lips.
"OH!" the crowd gasped.
*Slap*
Andrey facepalmed.
Helga reacted instantly—cheeks flushed, eyes bloodshot. She froze, torn between killing or hugging me. Her focus and grip faltered. I seized her weakened arm, flipped her over, and pinned her so she had no escape unless she was a hidden master.
"That's it, I win!" I grinned at the crowd. "Girls are easy to throw off with simple moves."
"Nice trick," the instructor praised. "But if she were noble, you'd face a ton of duels. Or a brick 'accidentally' dropped from the thirtieth floor."
"Fair," I agreed. "But here, we're Slayers—equal rights."
"Well done! You're excused from hand-to-hand classes, lest you accidentally kill someone. First, get your Gift ranked."
I stood tall, brushing myself off.
"What's this?" I noticed foundation on my hand.
Who left that? Helga's face showed no makeup—she didn't need it, naturally beautiful.
Whatever. I wiped it with a handkerchief and moved on.
Just like that, I skipped a class and gained a fan. Helga now huffed like a little train whenever she saw me.
Five days passed, and I was bored stiff. The key Rift info came on day one; after that, we studied monsters and their traits.
For instance, a Rift is a mysterious phenomenon, its true nature unknown. They vary, united only by the fact that unclosed Rifts spew monsters.
Closing methods differ. One might be a cave with giant rats, where you smash a crystal embedded in rock to seal the portal. But here's the catch: it closes only after everyone who entered leaves.
Simpler Rifts are vast caves teeming with monsters. Kill most or all, and the portal shuts.
Theories abound, but I suspect it's tied to mages from other worlds, like an experiment gone wrong, echoing on Earth.
I've seen powerful, mad mages who'd do anything for their experiments.
What if it was a test with places of power, now causing spatial Rifts? In my old world, even kids knew monsters flock to such places, growing like they're on cookies.
Then there's the Slayer's ring. You can't enter a Rift without one—it won't let you. Hence the brotherhood. The rings themselves are junk, but their stones are priceless.
Only national leaders and their inner circles know much about them. Commoners learn only that the stones are extraterrestrial, possibly from meteors or Rifts. When a Rift's monsters are cleared, nothing consumes the place's energy, causing a surge the stone absorbs. The ring gains energy with each closure, changing color to mark Slayer ranks.
The weakest Rift yields a white stone; next is red. Energy from closing a red Rift can be ten times that of a white one.
A master can't farm white Rifts to get a rainbow stone.
"Sh-sh-sh-opa!!!" Shnyrka hissed, emerging from the shadows.
"What's up, little guy?" He looked agitated.
I'd ordered him to monitor things and report trouble.
Living in barracks—more like dorms—keeps you on edge. You never know where danger lurks. Now, he'd found something.
The critter shared his memories, and I bolted from my favorite apple tree, its thick, curved trunk perfect for lounging.
Andrey's in trouble again…
I rushed to our barracks and, within five minutes, reached the showers.
"Hey! You can't go in!" a guy blocked me.
One three-finger jab to his gut, and he collapsed, gasping. No need for full force—just know where to hit.
I opened the door to find three Warriors pinning Andrey, his lip bloodied, ready to continue their dirty work.
Another guy lay in the corner, beaten first for some offense—a minor noble. Andrey stood up for him, calling it dishonorable to gang up. Shnyrka showed me everything. What an idealist! I'm starting to see why his father worried. This world's cruel, and Andrey's sheltered childhood, likely spent reading, left him unprepared.
"Hey, dirtbags, let him go and get the hell out!" I stormed in with my signature line.
"Piss off, Galaktionov," Baron Okhotsky snapped.
Okhotsky was a twitchy type, sent here by his father to get straightened out. Instead, he formed a little gang and acted like he was back home. He hadn't bothered me, though he tried recruiting me. My last sparring made waves—taking down three Gifted impressed many, keeping trouble at bay.
"Or what? Sic your jackals on me?" I smirked, staring him down, hoping he saw my contempt. "Not afraid I'll rip you apart?"
He wasn't scared. Foolish… A raw energy bolt flew at me, unrefined by element. Okhotsky's large energy reserves carried him in fights.
More playground nonsense! Gotta avoid killing these kids by mistake.
I conjured an energy field that resonated, nullifying his bolt while mine held. Weak energy crumbles against stronger, fiercer power.
"You're done, Timurka…"
A brawl ensued, me against all. It didn't last long—I avoided serious harm. The longer it dragged, the likelier someone got hurt. I went hand-to-hand, charging my armor to withstand stray hits.
A kick sent Okhotsky crashing into the tiled wall, back and head first, briefly out of the fight.
A leg sweep dropped the second. The third landed a solid, enhanced hit to my side. It didn't breach my armor, but the force was notable. I eyed this Warrior closely, then kneed his groin and smashed his head with my knee. He'd be out of action for a week, guaranteed.
No pity—I knocked out the rising second with a kick, then approached Okhotsky.
"Don't… you… dare… mess… with… me… or… my… friends," I punctuated each word by slamming his head against the wall, gripping his hair. "Got it?!"
"Ughhh…" he groaned, barely conscious.
Hope he heard me. A final, harder slam knocked out the local "boss."
"You okay?" I approached Andrey, sitting on the floor, offering a hand.
"Y-yeah…" he took it, standing.
"Gonna have a shiner," I smirked at his swelling eye.
"No, I won't," Andrey, remembering he's a Healer, pressed his hand to his face. Seconds later, the swelling vanished before my eyes.
I whistled… Even this simple healing showed his speed and skill. This kid's strong!
"Let's go," I nodded. "Before the duty officers swarm. I don't feel like explaining."
I grabbed his hand, pulling him toward the exit.
"Wait!" Andrey yanked free and rushed to the unconscious guy.
"When will you get it?!" I rolled my eyes. "You can't be this kind! The world's cruel! Look out for your own!"
But Andrey ignored me, kneeling beside the guy, muttering and waving his hand over him.
"Two broken ribs, bruised spleen… Concussion… Sasha! He needs the infirmary now!"
I sighed heavily. Twice. Then hoisted the guy into my arms.
"Let's go… Just answer one thing. Who is he, and why'd you stick your neck out for him?"