Over the many years of their activity, marked by varying degrees of honesty and nobility, they had managed to accumulate a small fortune, all packed into a wooden box painted a dirty green and roughly the size of two bricks.
I gritted my teeth as I dragged it out of the cave and carefully set it on the ground.
"Damn, this thing's heavy," I said to Alexey. "Doesn't look like much, but I nearly tore my arms off getting it out."
"That's because it's full of endless riches!" Petka squeaked, bouncing excitedly beside us. "Untold treasures!"
The box didn't have a fancy lock, just a couple of rusty, oil-stained latches. Cheapskates. After all those years of plundering, they could have splurged on something sturdier.
Alexey and I leaned over the box, and I carefully unlatched it. I was still skeptical about Petka's talk of "endless riches," but what I saw inside gave me pause.
Most of it was gold and silver coins, of course, but there was plenty of jewelry too. Rings with family crests, some very similar to the one on my own finger, glittered among the contents.
"What a disgusting sight..." Alexey grimaced, eyeing this shimmering abundance. "Look, there are signet rings in there. I don't even want to think about where they got these from. Sick bastards."
But I only smirked.
"You believe me now, don't you?"
"I believe you, but I want nothing to do with this. There's blood on every piece of gold in this pile," he said grimly.
"I don't plan to keep it," I said in agreement. "We'll hand it straight over to the police."
"Good," Alexey said with a nod. "But how are we going to get it to the police station? Did you bring anything to carry this loot, treasure hunter? People might start asking questions before we even get there."
"I... didn't think of that," I admitted, caught off guard.
"That's pretty damn careless," Alexey muttered, frowning. "Even a trash bag would've done the trick. We'll look way too suspicious carrying this thing."
"I don't know... It's treasure, after all." I snapped the lid shut. "It's supposed to look like this. Honestly, it'd be even weirder if we found a pile of gold stuffed into a brand-new suitcase."
"That we have a pile of gold is suspicious enough as it is..."
We stared at the box like it had committed a crime, our expressions filled with doubt.
"We'll grab a bag or something in Belozersk," Alexey said with a dismissive wave. "What we really need right now is a believable story about where and how we found this thing."
"By accident in the forest?"
"That's not going to work," Alexey said, shaking his head with a frown. "Why on earth would we go all the way to Dubravino? We're not out here foraging for berries."
"We could just leave it at the station. Anonymously. No questions asked. This whole thing is getting way too complicated."
"So what's the plan?"
"We hide it somewhere discreet," I said, "then send them a note with the exact location. Simple."
"And don't forget to say it belongs to Wig Jr.!" Petka squeaked, his voice suddenly high-pitched. "I want to see him hang!"
"I'd hang you by your tongue," I shot back, my tone icy. "You've worn out your welcome with your endless chatter! Where's my artifact?"
"Right... The artifact..." Petka's eyes went wide with feigned innocence. "Once the treasure's in safe hands, then you'll get your artifact.
Trying to fool me, are you? It's not going to work!"
The audacity! If I'd known he was such a cheeky bastard, I never would've gotten involved in the first place. Never again would I help a ghost!
You should have listened to me...
*** Vologda Principality Belozersk Police Station "A treasure hunt?" Captain Vorobyev asked, looking puzzled at the open wooden box resting on the table. "What in God's name is going on here?"
"I'm as lost as you are, sir," Lieutenant Morozov muttered with a gloomily resigned expression, reaching into the box to pick up one of the old minted coins. He examined it meticulously from every angle, then casually tossed it back inside.
His gaze fell on the note they had received a few hours earlier, the one they had first dismissed as a childish prank. It was written on a pristine white sheet, in bold block letters, and read:
TWENTY STEPS DUE NORTH OF MOTHER IN LAW'S TONGUE, A TREASURE IS BURIED. IT WAS CONCEALED THERE BY THE VILE CRIMINAL YEVGENY VIGOV, LEADER OF THE MERCENARY SQUAD KNOWN AS THE MIGHTY WOLVES. HANG. HANG HIM FOR HIS CRIMES.
How could anyone take it seriously? It was an obvious childish joke, a second-grade prank. He would have simply ignored the note altogether and not bothered to verify its contents if not for two compelling reasons.
First, he was well acquainted with what Mother in Law's Tongue was. It was a peculiar, intricately shaped stone located not far from the turnoff to Belozersk when traveling along the Kireev Road.
Second, the mercenary squad called the Mighty Wolves was also a real entity. Its leader was officially recorded as Yevgeny Shishakov, known by the nickname Wig.
Thus, the note could very well contain authentic information.
Something worth verifying, at the very least. And as it turned out, their curiosity was justified.
But now, a new complication had suddenly arisen — an entire wooden box filled with gold and silver. And judging by the amount, it seemed all this treasure had been carefully gathered and stored away for several decades.
Vorobyev was not at all fond of that wooden box. It carried the unmistakable heavy, sinister scent of blood and death. Just a glance at all those rings and precious stones revealed that no one in their right mind would willingly part with such treasures. The coins, too, were no different.
"Let's go over it once more," he said, casting a glance at the lieutenant, whose forehead was beaded with nervous sweat. "Who brought the note to the station?"
"A little girl delivered it," Morozov responded. "I checked the security cameras. She arrived riding a bicycle, if that's relevant."
"Did anyone ask her where she got the note?" Vorobyev pressed, irritation flickering in his voice.
"The duty officer questioned her. She said some nice old man handed her the paper and asked her to bring it here. That man also gave her two milk chocolates, one with coconut, and the other with—" "Alright, alright." Vorobyev raised his hand to cut him off. "I get the picture. We might as well be searching for a needle in a haystack. In that little girl's world, 'some nice old man' can be anyone at least five years older than her."
"I thought the same, sir," Morozov admitted.
"Chocolate," Vorobyev muttered, lost in distant thoughts. "Anything else?"
"We need to speak with Vigov," Morozov said, gesturing toward the heap of jewelry inside the box. "I'm convinced he's involved."
"Of course he's involved. But what exactly are we going to say to him? Besides this scrap of paper, we've got nothing else to go on, have we?" Vorobyev stated, taking the note and giving a nonchalant shrug. "He'll say he knows nothing about any treasure and send us home. What can we possibly accuse him of?"
"What do we do then?" Morozov frowned, his brow furrowing.
"Just stay silent?"
"We should still have a chat with him. Though I have a feeling it'll be as fruitful as trying to squeeze water from a stone," the captain said, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "That 'nice old man' sure got us in a pickle..."
*** We returned to school late in the evening, tired as dogs and just as irritable.
To think we missed dinner...
The only one truly happy today was Petka, who had stayed behind in Belozersk in a carefree mood, keeping an eye on the police. We had agreed he would come to Kitezh later and tell us how the story ended, and he had promised not to lie.
Despite everything, I didn't think he planned to fool me. I had kept my end of the bargain, after all. Besides, what would a ghost even want with an artifact?
Alexey was a bit upset with me. Well, not exactly with me. It was more like he was frustrated with "the situation". He had spent the entire Sunday running around and hadn't studied a thing for Monday's pop quiz.
If the artifact turned out to be worth anything, I figured I would share it with him as an apology.
Personally, aside from missing dinner, I saw no reason to feel down.
The day had been absolutely fantastic!
Not only did we find the treasure, but we even managed to acquire another magical crystal. What was there to complain about?
On top of that, the cooks at the cafeteria took pity on us and kindly provided a buttery bun with a dollop of crème fraiche and a juicy cutlet. Not a hearty dinner, of course, but still far better than going to bed hungry.
The next day marked my first real fencing lesson of the year. My class had already gone through three sessions, but until now, we hadn't been paired for sparring. I was genuinely excited to finally cross swords with my classmates.
But as it turned out, being the smallest in the class was enough to make everyone else avoid pairing with me. Maybe some of the girls would have, but I wasn't exactly eager to spar with them either. So I ended up fencing with the instructor.
Even with protective armor and specialized practice swords, fencing was still risky. You couldn't actually kill your opponent, of course, but it was easy to leave a nasty bruise or even break something. That was why the instructor didn't spend much time with me. He focused on keeping an eye on the others instead.
I didn't push too hard either. Everything he demonstrated, I had already mastered long ago, and the rest he still considered too advanced for me, at least for now.
Dorian was an absolute expert in this craft, and I knew quite a bit myself. But I wasn't planning to showcase my skills just yet. I'd have plenty of time for that later.
As for my classmates... Well, they were a complete disappointment.
I'd known more about fencing at eleven. And remember, these were only training swords. Imagine what would happen if they had real energy blades.
They'd likely tear themselves apart in their reckless attempts to look cool, no doubt about it.
"I've seen toddlers with more spatial awareness!" the instructor announced sharply once the lesson had concluded.
Tall and gaunt, with mustaches that jutted out in all directions and a gait that was almost comically peculiar, Artem Zakharovich Grebene resembled a pompous rooster strutting about proudly.
"Do you honestly believe I'll go easy on you just because you're directionally challenged? Don't even dream about it!" he said, pointing at all of us with an accusing finger. "You will leave these walls with a true understanding of what a sword is and how to wield it for self-defense!"
"Yes, sir," we all mumbled in a disorganized chorus.
"Go hit the shower." He waved dismissively, signaling us to disperse. "The next batch of slackers will be here soon enough."
The crowd rushed to the racks of weapons and armor, eager to stow everything away and get out of the gym. I, on the other hand, wasn't in a hurry. There wasn't much space in the locker room anyway, and we had a short break after PE, so I decided to hang back a little longer to watch the next group take on Grebene's training dummies and get a sense of the senior students' fighting skills.
The hall echoed with the shouts and cries of students, while my classmates were still putting their practice swords away, filling the space with noise. Then, all at once, it stopped. A strange, almost unsettling silence settled over everything.
I instinctively turned around to see what was happening, and what I saw took me by surprise. Standing ten paces away, grinning mischievously and baring his teeth in a crooked smile, was none other than Nikita Bubnov.
Beside him, a small clique of his closest friends from class looked on with eager anticipation.
Now I understood why everyone had suddenly fallen silent. They were holding their breath, bracing themselves for the impending spectacle, the moment when he would finally confront me. Perhaps even kick me in the ribs.
Why not? The timing was perfect. Even in my former school, such things were commonplace. The training hall seemed almost deliberately designed for fights, especially when there were no teachers present to intervene.
I cast a quick glance around. About forty people were present — mostly my classmates, with the rest made up of third-years, many from Bubnov's entourage. It was a sizable crowd, which only made the situation more thrilling.
"What do you want?" I asked, shifting to offense right away, just like my fencing coach at home had taught me. If a fight was unavoidable, he always said, you'd better strike first. "With the amount of attention you've been giving me, Bubnov, I'm starting to think you've got a crush on me."
Laughter rippled through the gym, but it was short-lived, quickly fading away into tense silence.
"You're cocky for a brat," he said, slowly advancing toward me, a sneer curling on his lips. "Did your parents never teach you to respect your elders?"
"Nope," I replied casually.
"Maybe it's time someone did," he muttered, eyeing me from head to toe with a predatory grin spreading across his face. "How about a spar?
Or are you too afraid?"
I couldn't help but wonder just how skilled he really was. It wasn't that I was afraid; I was no stranger to pain. But if he was a good fencer, I could be in trouble. He might hit harder on purpose, land a few well-placed blows, and leave me with a headache or worse. Still, I wasn't about to be caught off guard. I had a few tricks of my own.
"Please say yes," Nikita said, clasping his hands together as if in a prayer. "I've been waiting for days for our paths to cross."
"Well, when you put it like that... Grab a sword," I replied, heading confidently toward the center of the hall.
"Excellent!" he exclaimed with a grin. "Pay attention, Temnikov.
You might even learn something."
He walked over to the stand, picked up a heavier training sword, and approached me with purpose. He wasnt wearing a training uniform. Either he was overly confident or just a little eccentric.
"Not even a helmet?" I asked, my voice ringing out clearly through the quiet of the hall.
"Against you? Pfft! Don't make me laugh, Temnikov."
Our little standoff probably looked like a caricature of David versus Goliath. Nikita was a massive brute. If he managed to land a hit with that sword, things could get pretty ugly. He might even break something in me. I had to act with absolute certainty. There was no room for hesitation.
We stood face-to-face in complete silence. Someone had to make the first move.
In the end, it was Nikita who finally broke the tension and tried to knock some sense into me.
His thunderous cry echoed through the hall as he raised his sword for a powerful blow, intent on ending the confrontation with a single, decisive strike. In that split second, I pushed off the floor, dropped to my knees, and slid beneath his swing, driving the hilt of my sword hard into his groin.
The roar stopped cold.
"Bastard..." Nikita hissed through clenched teeth as he collapsed, clutching his groin with both hands.
"Only a complete idiot would take part in a sparring match without a training uniform or groin protection," came Grebene's voice from seemingly out of nowhere. "I sincerely hope you'll remember this incident for future reference, Mr. Bubnov."
"Gods..."
"Take him to the infirmary," Grebene said, then shot me a strange, amused glance and smirked. "Temnikov, didn't I tell your class to leave?"
"I was going to..."
"Then get moving! You've turned this place into the Colosseum!" he barked, gesturing dramatically. "What are you kids thinking? All you do in your free time is fight!"
Without a word, I walked over to the rack, returned my sword, peeled off my training gear, and headed to the locker room to grab my bag and leave without hesitation.
"Temnikov!"
"Yes, sir?"
"Make sure your next sword fight on school grounds is with me, during class. I don't want to hear about another pair of cracked family jewels. Do I make myself clear?"
"Understood."
"You're dismissed."
*** The news that I had given a third-year student a solid thrashing during sparring spread across the school at lightning speed. By the next break, half of Kitezh was already staring at me with wide eyes and open mouths. And by the end of class, it seemed like every single student knew about Nikita's bruised ego.
While I was walking through the park, only the ducks weren't pointing their beaks at me, whispering things like, "Temnikov's coming!" or "That's the guy who knocked out Bubnov," and other similar comments.
Some people came up to me, asking if it was true that we had fought with energy swords, and if I had really cut the poor guy's legs clean off.
It was insane how fast rumors spread, ballooning into all sorts of wild stories. I wouldn't have been surprised if, within a couple of hours, the police showed up and started grilling me with dumb questions like, "What exactly did you do to Bubnov?"
Alexey had a full day of lessons, so I spent the time on my own, practicing clever responses to questions like that. But I quickly got bored pretending , and I retreated to one of the park benches I cherished deeply.
It was nestled within a sprawling, verdant labyrinth of hedges — an oasis of tranquility, rarely visited by anyone. The perfect spot to sit undisturbed, free from prying eyes and unwelcome interruptions.
I stayed there, absorbed in a book until nearly twilight, and had just begun thinking about leaving when I caught snippets of conversation.
Judging by the tone and manner of speaking, the voices belonged to senior students, though I couldn't quite tell who they were. The conversation was taking place just beyond the hedge.
It wasn't that I was trying to eavesdrop, but then my surname came up...
"Did you hear about that new guy, Temnikov?"
"Yeah." Someone chuckled. "Kitezh's latest sensation. Dark Gift at just twelve years old, and all that. A real prodigy!"
"They say he beat a third-year during fencing practice today. Can you imagine? If only we had someone like that in the Serpent Order..."
"I don't know... That might be too young. Twelve years old... What would he even do?"
They talked about other things too, but I couldn't catch the details.
They had already drifted far from where I was sitting.
Sounds intriguing, doesn't it? Dorian chimed. I'd ask around about this Serpent Order if I were you...