Mearin, the senior mage of the Volkarg Research Association, was a highly respected professor and a recognized spellcaster. Moreover, he was a realist, and that was exactly why he couldn't believe what was happening now.
Before his eyes—Syren, an infected man who had indirectly confirmed his clairvoyant abilities—was skillfully bypassing traps, warning the group before they stumbled into them. Mearin had never believed in prophetic sayings or nonsense about clairvoyance, because a person could not foresee the future.
"Then how the hell is he doing this?!" he nearly howled to himself, watching another stone thrown by Syren at a wall explode under an ethereal discharge. Dust rained down from the vaults, but the team remained unharmed. In fact, ever since he had joined them, they had been pushing into the depths at a frantic pace. It seemed as if just a couple more days—and their three-week plan to explore the labyrinth would be complete.
But he wasn't the only one noticing the rapid progress. The warriors and mages in their group watched Syren's advance in astonishment. He moved forward boldly, like a pioneer, unafraid of taking a hit—and most importantly, it was working. Previously, they had to advance cautiously, sending two fighters ahead to minimize damage. After all, in case of trouble, strong ether users could fortify their bodies—not to mention protective spells cast by the mages. Of course, there was always the option to blast a path with a spell to neutralize traps, but that could end very badly due to the peculiarities of the anthill. In the worst case, they might end up buried, as had happened recently.
— Listen, boy, how are you doing this? — Mearin asked during another break.
Syren didn't answer directly. He usually shrugged it off, saying he'd "felt the earth's tremor" or "the walls told him where the trap was."
But Mearin didn't stop questioning, trying to extract as much information as possible.
"What's wrong with this old man?! I can't just say that I see the direction of the ether!" Syren shouted inside his head.
In reality, he was well aware of his unique trait. But he couldn't explain it—for safety reasons. Even though they were working together now, no one could guarantee his safety later.
So he dodged questions with random answers, continuing to bypass dangerous zones without difficulty.
A day passed—and then something unusual happened.
Syren was still having the same dream. Waking up once again in a sweat, he saw Priest Tas and Senior Mage Mearin standing next to him. It seemed they had been watching him sleep for a while.
Expressionless, Syren calmly asked:
— What the hell are you watching me sleep for?!
Mearin frowned and remained silent, while Tas, unable to hide his disgust, curled his face.
— Ha. Don't talk to me like that, kid, — he snapped sharply.
Syren raised an eyebrow.
— So what do you want from me? Or are you checking whether I've turned into a monster?
At last, Mearin spoke:
— That's not the point. We need your help with something.
Syren was slightly surprised. Deep down, he was even pleased that they needed his help. Partly because he was running out of energy bars.
"Who knew those bars were supposed to last two weeks?!" he cursed mentally. When Priest Tas first saw Syren devour several high-calorie bars at once, he was astonished by his appetite, likening him to a pig...
— So what kind of help do you need? — he asked in a neutral tone, trying not to give away his emotions.
Mearin looked at him grimly, then said:
— Six of our people have caught some kind of illness, — as he spoke, he squinted and looked Syren straight in the eyes. — And we don't know what it is. Maybe you can say something about it?
Syren was surprised by Mearin's request but didn't refuse immediately.
— You know I haven't gotten near them even once this whole time, right? Without direct contact with ore carriers, the only way to get infected is through the ore itself.
Mearin knew this, but he couldn't help suspecting Syren. It hadn't been long since he joined them, and suddenly more than half of the group had fallen ill. That couldn't be a coincidence.
— Still, I insist that you check on them. I can't just stand by and watch my people suffer.
Syren let out a tired sigh. He understood what the senior mage was planning. If those poor souls had really caught something from him, it would show through the synchronization with the dead ether inside his body.
— You want to see if they'll get worse just by being near me?
Mearin neither confirmed nor denied his words.
— Maybe you can see the cause of their illness. Just like you found Fenar, or led us through the hazards. Our medics are at a loss and can't say for sure what happened to them.
Syren knew exactly where this was going, but he couldn't refuse. That would only make it seem like he had something to hide. No matter how you looked at it, the fact that several ether users suddenly collapsed right after he joined the team was already suspicious. He could only hope he truly had nothing to do with it.
— I doubt I can help them. The most I can do is take a look.
Mearin gave a short nod, while Priest Tas interjected:
— You reek of sickness. I won't let you get too close to our people, — he said with open threat in his voice, staring at Syren before turning his gaze to the pensive Mearin. — You understand we can't take that risk, right? He's infected. What if the dead ether in his body causes their deaths? They're already in a weakened state. We can't allow this!
Mearin only gave a grim smile.
— Thanks for your advice, Tas. But you, more than anyone, should know that in the early stages, shock from dead ether doesn't set in. Look at him, — he gestured toward Syren. — He's literally got ore granules flowing through his veins, and I'm sure it's been that way for a long time. I get it, you're afraid he'll overload them. But what if it's not an infection? What if they just got poisoned by something else? In that case, I'm sure nothing serious will happen to them.
The priest held his ground, pointing a finger at Syren.
— You can't be sure this leper didn't infect them. What if he orchestrated this? What if he's spreading the disease out of spite, like those cultists?!
Mearin looked at the priest coldly before replying:
— In that case, I'll be sure you'll gladly put a bullet in him.
Tas went silent, while Syren exclaimed indignantly:
— Would you quit talking like I'm already done for?! I'm standing right here, you know!
Mearin smiled his old, familiar smile and looked at him:
— It's just a figure of speech. I know you haven't had contact with them. But we still need to make sure.
He paused briefly, then continued:
— But if it turns out you really orchestrated all this, you can forget about our agreement—along with your life.
"That bastard!" Syren cursed inwardly. He had no choice. If it turned out the people were really infected by the ore, he'd be as good as dead.
With a scowl, he glared at Mearin and Tas in turn before finally agreeing:
— Fine. Lead the way.
Tas spat on the ground in disgust, while Mearin simply turned and pointed out the direction.
Under the tense gaze of the others, the three of them walked toward the center of the temporary camp. Unfortunately, all the Sages who could power the dome were now lying on the ground, too weak to even lift their heads. Their comrades sat nearby while two medics checked their condition.
At that moment, a black-haired girl with a distinctive medic's armband approached and stopped them.
— Master Mearin, Master Tas! — she looked at Syren with alarm, sensing the suffocating presence of dead ether. — Please take this man away from here! Even if you want to test their reaction to infection—it's too dangerous!
They couldn't use filter-processed granules for diagnostics, and they certainly didn't have the equipment to examine their blood. So the only thing they could do was test the reaction to a carrier of infections. If the patients' conditions worsened, that would mean the dead ether resonated with their bodies. But if nothing happened—then they weren't infected. It was a fairly old method, no longer used due to the risk of making a patient worse.
Mearin reassured her calmly:
— It's alright. I've heard that in early stages the granules can still be purged from the blood, yes? He won't stay near them long—just walk past.
— But…
— Evalyn, I won't let him harm them, — the senior mage interrupted her firmly.
Nodding reluctantly, the medic stepped aside, watching as Syren walked past the sick one by one.
Three weakened people looked at him with hatred in their eyes, while another three openly cursed and accused him of causing their suffering. But Syren didn't linger—he quickly moved away. He didn't care what those people said. Back at the facility, the overseers constantly tormented and beat them for being sick. And whenever one of the staff got infected, they'd start looking for "culprits" to make examples of. Those poor souls went through hell for "infecting" others. Compared to that, a few insults meant nothing.
Luckily, no one showed signs of reaction, and Syren walked back to Mearin. The old mage remained silent, clearly not in the mood to talk, while Tas still looked at him with revulsion.
— Get the hell away before you break something, freak, — the priest spat at Syren's feet.
Not reacting, Syren left the range of the inactive dome and headed to the spot where he'd left his backpack. Pulling out a bar, he bit off a small piece and chewed. The whole situation infuriated him, but there was nothing he could do about it.