What happened next, Saigo remembered vaguely, as if through thick, fogged glass.
The jolting of the carriage — long and agonizing, where every bump in the road sent a new wave of pain through his shattered body.
Then — hands, many hands, grabbing him under the arms, dragging him up some stairs.
The removal of Linsi's armor — a heavy, alien shell that dug into his scorched skin, then a plunge into a soft, incredibly luxurious couch, sinking into silks and velvet.
And after that... time blurred. He lay flat somewhere between oblivion and hell.
People swirled around him incessantly, like a flock of impatient vultures. Vague shadows in expensive clothes, whispering voices, the touch of cold instruments, the smells of ointments — acrid, herbal, sickly-sweet.
Images swam and merged, faces blurred into pale spots. Until one shadow — old, with deep wrinkles — leaned over, and a cool, pleasantly minty liquid with a metallic tang flooded into his mouth.
And the world collapsed again into the abyss of unconsciousness.
…
Linsi stood by the bed, looking at the sleeping Saigo with unconcealed, almost reverent admiration. The guy looked like a chopped cutlet thrown under a hundred hooves and then lightly fried.
His skin — a complete mosaic of crimson, bluish, and black spots, tightened by scars and fresh stitches. His face — swollen, distorted.
And yet... he had done it. More than that, he had over-delivered. And, even more importantly, he had met the deadline. Linsi mentally applauded. The disguise had worn off back in the carriage—the professional work of the Kotto clan, impeccable down to the last detail.
That level... it evoked not just respect, but almost superstitious awe. A couple of times Linsi even caught himself thinking: "Should I try to buy the guy out? I definitely have the money, wouldn't even regret the other half of my fortune."
But he immediately dismissed the thought. To give up such a treasure, such absolute power, for miserable gold, of which there are millions of tons in the world? Only a fool would do that. And the head of the Kotto clan... was no fool.
They dealt in other currencies.
"Well, how is he?" Linsi addressed the healer, who, bent under the weight of knowledge and years, was walking towards him, wiping his hands on a bloodied rag.
The old man with a gray, coarse beard and eyes deeply sunk in wrinkles only heaved a heavy sigh. He nervously pulled out a short pipe, pointed a finger towards the couch:
"He should be dead, milord. Three times over, at least." The old man lit up, his hands trembling slightly. "I have never seen a body so... torn apart."
Burns and tissue frostbite in the same spot, internal hemorrhaging, muscle tears, and God knows what else from that dragon's slobber..." He took a deep drag, blowing out clouds of acrid smoke. "The guy... he's a monster. Worse than any dragon. His body... it's like an anvil—an unbreakable spirit to match."
"Did you not understand me, old man?" Linsi interrupted him softly but with an icy tone. His eyes shone. "Will he live?"
The healer snorted, flicked the ash.
"Not for long if he doesn't find another line of work... But as for now... nothing seriously threatens his life. I fought off sepsis. Neutralized the gas poisoning. In short, did what I could."
The rest... will heal. He'll wake up soon, and then you can talk to him. If he wants to, of course…"
Linsi smiled broadly, a truly happy smile. He was a businessman to the core.
And his personal business ethics stated: for good work, one must pay generously and on time.
You can't offer anything to a corpse. Rubbing his hands together cheerfully — his thick, well-groomed fingers sliding against each other.
His mind was already painting a picture of a triumphal entry into the capital. Him — on a horse white as snow, in a new, dazzlingly shining doublet. From the palace roofs, not just rose petals, but petals of pure gold would rain down!
Behind him — a huge wagon, and on it, towering over the crowd, the giant, still terrifying head of Kalis. And a whole caravan! Not of mules—of purebred horses pulling carts bursting with pure silver, fist-sized diamonds, silks, exotic fruits... gifts and tributes for... for her.
Katarina... — the thought burned him, a sweet heat spreading through his veins. — "You will be mine. The throne, the empire... everything will be ours. Thanks to this chopped-up guy."
His smile at that moment seemed so wide it could contain not just the whole world, but all worlds at once.
The smile of a man who not only got what he wanted but hit the most unimaginable, gold-and-blood-soaked jackpot.
A truly happy man. He already saw Katarina, struck by his generosity and power (and, of course, the dragon's head), falling into his arms.
Linsi didn't notice how his gaze slid back to the mutilated body on the couch. To the body that was the key to all his dreams. And in that gaze, besides admiration, something cold and calculating flickered.
Like a collector examining a rare, dangerous, and very valuable exhibit. I'm sure you'll still be useful to me, boy, the thought whispered. Oh, so useful...
…
The news of Linsi's triumph spread across the Empire faster than a steppe fire. Linsi himself did not forbid the servants from talking — on the contrary, he generously encouraged their zeal. The rest was a matter of technique and greedy human imagination. With each retelling, the story acquired incredible details.
"Did you hear? He cut off its head with one blow!"
"No, he killed it with a forbidden artifact from the depths of creation!"
"Come on! He just beat it to death with his bare hands!"
"A blacksmith told me — he bribed the dragon, it twisted its own neck, and then Linsi... pissed on its corpse..."
The capital buzzed like a disturbed hive. One piece of news overshadowed everything: In a couple of days, the new Emperor would arrive.
In taverns, inns, squares, markets, and even in the stinky corners of public latrines — they spoke only of him. Of Linsi von Altshtadt, the slayer of Kalis.
The palace was in a state of chaotic frenzy. Soon—the new rule would arrive here.
Every courtier, official, guardsman feverishly sought a way to curry favor, to leave a "good impression."
At the epicenter of the storm, in her office flooded with cold light from the high windows, sat Katarina.
She was massaging her temples, trying to stifle the throbbing pain. Opposite her, sprawled in an armchair, sat the Captain of the Imperial Guard, Markus. He was finishing his second goblet of expensive red wine, placing the empty crystal glass on the carved table with a ringing clink.
"You'll rub a hole in your head like that," he remarked hoarsely, pointing a finger with a broken nail at her hands. "Tell me it's all a lie, and we'll hang him on the main gates by morning, as soon as he arrives."
"I'd like to…" he smirked, "...no, actually, not really."
"However, facts are stubborn. The dragon's eye is here. The head the size of a house is already on its way to the capital. Its authenticity has been confirmed by the mages of the College."
"No. No!" Katarina stood up sharply, slamming her fist on the table. "And again no! It's impossible! HOW?!"
"That's what you'll ask him," Markus replied impassively, pouring himself the dregs from the decanter. "And anyway, Your Majesty, why are you displeased again? You gave the task, didn't you?" Katarina nodded, lips pressed tightly. "He completed it. Brilliantly, I might add."
"And as for the 'how'…" Markus meaningfully touched his fingers to his temple. "With his money? Connections? Some 'Ancient Slaying Artifact' — no problem."
"Yes, but the test wasn't about that!" Katarina exclaimed, her voice breaking. "The test was to KILL THE BLOODY DRAGON ALONE! The 'how' is question number ten!"
Markus slowly raised a heavy, tired look at her. Katarina averted her eyes, feeling her face burn.
"Not by the rules. Not fair," she babbled.
"If you back out now," the captain said quietly, but in a way that each word hit like a hammer, "you'll secure shame for a hundred years to come."
"Everyone will say: Empress Katarina got scared of the one who did what she demanded."
"Well, he's..." Katarina waved her hand, "...fat! Unimpressive! Disgusting!"
"I know, but firstly, that's fixable. Diet. Surgery. Magic—with his money, I'm surprised he hasn't done it already. And secondly… if he really did it, even with an artifact… then his appearance is the least of his problems."
Katarina froze. Then slowly, like an automaton, nodded. Her shoulders slumped. "Leave, Markus. I... need to think."
The captain drank the wine to the last drop, stood up, clicked his heels in a respectful but not servile bow, and left, leaving the Empress alone with the hollow silence of the luxurious office and the crushing weight of the inevitable.
Markus himself, barely after the door closed, allowed himself a rare grin.
The candidacy of Linsi had run through his head more than once, and the benefits of such an "acquisition" were undeniable.
"More money in the treasury — and less paperwork, on the contrary." For the latter alone, Markus was ready to kiss the new master's fat ass in advance.
"But… we'll see." He glanced at the massive palace clock.
"Time to prepare to meet the 'hero'…"