"Swallow" is currently a fairly popular nightclub, though just a year and a half ago it was on the verge of collapse. Its founder and permanent bartender, Honda Atsushi, almost immediately came to the attention of one of the criminal gangs, and they quickly squeezed him, turning his establishment into a headquarters. All sorts of things went on there, all kinds of items were stored, and all kinds of people came and went. Naturally, no one advertised the club—no PR campaign, and it wasn't easy to get in even if you happened to find it. As for profit, don't even get me started—the local criminals covered rent and maintenance, plus some food and drinks, but didn't even try to make money from the place itself.
And then Nakata Akemi happened to them. The club itself wasn't her target, but after destroying the gang and taking everything that belonged to them, she effectively returned "Swallow" to its original owner. Not forgetting, of course, to impose a standard tribute. As a result, poor Honda, nearly broke and with a tarnished reputation, almost lost the club.
And that's when I appeared on the horizon. At the time, it occurred to me that it wouldn't be a bad idea to have a place I could point to and say, "I partied there all night," and have someone confirm it. In short, I decided to get myself a cover. And a club was perfect for that. But since no one would sell anything to a snot-nosed kid like me, I turned to Akemi, who suggested "Swallow." At first, she mentioned another place, but I brought up the tribute—saying it would be nice if my future club didn't have to pay it—and that's when she directed me to Honda.
As support, Akemi sent Ishiatama with me, who said exactly one sentence during the entire meeting: "This guy wants to buy your club, so name your price." What followed can only be described as a meltdown. Yelling, spitting, swearing. We'd bankrupted him, robbed him. We'd destroyed his dream. A face full of determination and a declaration that he'd rather die than sell the club. In the end, a fourteen-year-old kid had to take control of the conversation. The result—fifty percent of the club for a symbolic price. From me, financing was required to revive the business, plus protection from criminal elements, which Akemi would effectively provide. And of course, Honda had to keep quiet about me. Even on paper, "Swallow" fully belongs to him. Perfect, really. An owner who desperately needs me and understands better than anyone what will happen if he lets me down. And after seeing the criminal mess for several years, he understands very well. A couple of months later, I even gave him one percent so he could, with a clear conscience, at least tell himself that he's the senior partner. By the end of the conversation, I think Honda even started to respect me—though it's unclear for what.
With the money, Atsushi—nicknamed Shotgun—revived his establishment, and somehow I ended up helping with the promotion. Now that very "promotion" was sitting in their favorite spot and, as usual, either celebrating something or just having dinner.
The place was a U-shaped sofa with a low oval table, located against the wall opposite the bar counter.
— Hey, guys. Why so cheerful?
— Ho, Shinji! Once again I'm convinced—you've got a knack for showing up at the right moment! — shouted a black-haired guy of about twenty-five.
In the dim light of the club you couldn't see it, but I knew he had dark brown eyes and a small X-shaped scar near his left eye.
— Huh? So what happened?
— About an hour and a half ago we signed a contract with "Tryn Records," so congratulate us—a world tour is happening!
— Oh! So I won! I told you it wouldn't even take two years.
— Damn, I forgot about that. — Noriyuki.
— That's true. — Itaru.
— Well, it's Shinji. — Eva, the only woman in the group.
— Then sit down and have a drink with us! — Taku, who immediately got smacked on the back of the head by Eva.
— You seem pretty surprised, Shinji, — smiled Roko, the leader of the pop-rock group "Inter." — Looks like you didn't really believe it yourself.
Well, a little. Back then they had a whole streak of bad luck—both personal and professional. So I decided to cheer them up. They brushed it off, and I ended up making a bet. For one percent of their record sales. I didn't actually believe it would happen, but I had to do something. So now I've got two percent—one for the bet and one for lyrics and music. From my world, but shh, not a word to anyone.
— I just didn't think it would happen this fast. Only a year and a half. — Now they're among the most popular musicians in Japan. And even known abroad. Most importantly, great advertising for mine and Shotgun's club.
— We wanted to call you, but it was late, and with you it's impossible to tell whether you're free or busy—whether you're going to sleep or heading out. So we decided to tell you tomorrow, — said Eva.
Today she wasn't wearing the colored lenses she changed almost every couple of days, and I could see her natural yellow eye color. The only one in the group who didn't have black hair. Apparently her natural color is dark blond, but I've only heard that—usually she wears dark blue.
— By the way, we're counting on you, — added Itaru, the guy with the broken nose. The drummer and the only other lyric provider in the group besides me. — A couple of songs would come in handy.
— Alright, — I said, looking over the table covered with drinks and snacks. — Just don't forget to tell me later which countries you'll be touring. — Oh, battered shrimp! — By the way, when are you leaving?
— In half a year, — Roko replied. — Here, have some meatballs—they're actually pretty good.
I should also mention that Roko and Eva are a couple, and they've sort of adopted me as a younger brother. Once I caught on, I decided—whatever, let them take care of me, as long as they don't overdo it. Oh, and they were all classmates, except Eva—she's a year younger.
— Hey, it's the start of the school year today! — Taku suddenly remembered, black-haired like all the guys in the group. — We should drink to that! — he exclaimed. But immediately choked when he caught Eva's взгляд. — I mean… I should.
Funny guy. Notable for constantly suggesting a drink. It's like he's perpetually searching for a drinking buddy, even though he drinks less than almost anyone. I once saw him outdrink Shotgun in a bet. Not that he has some insane tolerance—like most people—but for someone who doesn't drink much, Taku holds up well.
— By the way, yeah, — Eva said, still eyeing Taku. — Today was your first day at school, right? So tell us, how did it go? And where did you enroll, anyway?
— Dakisyuro, — I said, looking for something to drink. As always with this group, there was soda and Eva's cherry juice on the table. Not counting the alcohol. — Well… overall, just a normal day. Nothing interesting.
— Dakisyuro? — Roko raised an eyebrow. — You've got some serious connections. But honestly, if you had that kind of pull, you'd have been better off going to Shirubariri. Same level of school. They've got their own quirks, sure, but still better than Dakisyuro.
Probably not a good idea to tell them I live right next to it. It's not a secret or anything, but honestly, I don't feel like answering the questions that would definitely follow. And explaining the real reason would just be embarrassing.
— It's not just connections—it's connections specifically with that school. I wouldn't have been able to get into any other.
— I see… — Roko drawled. — In that case, yeah—if you manage to endure it, it'll help you in the future.
— I don't get it, what's so scary about Dakisyuro? — asked the only woman in our group.
— Hmm. I hope everyone remembers who my father is? — His father was the head of the Buruhato clan—a small and not widely known one, but still… elite is elite. Even that small clan could tie many, many people into knots. Though Roko had some falling-out with his father and went independent right after finishing high school. — So. As you all understand, getting into any of the four famous schools wasn't a problem for me—but I was specifically being prepared for Dakisyuro. My father and older brother studied there. But Dakisyuro… how to put it… Have you even heard about the four elite high schools of the Tokyo district? — Blank stares answered him. — Figures. In short, there are plenty of high schools in Tokyo comparable to Dakisyuro, but these four are considered the very best. And in my opinion, deservedly so. For example, they have some of the strongest sports clubs—not the absolute best, but they're constantly in the finals. You guys should remember the Great Hangover Day.
— That's when the whole school got drunk because the basketball team lost? — Taku asked. — Yeah, I remember that.
— Uh-huh. Of course you do—you were the one who started that party, — muttered our eternal silent one, Noriyuki.
— Slander! I said it then and I'll say it now—no single person could pull that off. Three-quarters of the school were wasted that day—guys and girls alike.
— Alright, alright, let's drop it—it's in the past. What I'm getting at is: our team lost to one of those schools. Danashafu, in case anyone forgot. Besides sports clubs, they've got regular clubs that also show up on TV all the time. Exhibitions, events, concerts. Like, remember a couple of months ago, when a young school band opened our concert? — He snapped his fingers. — Shirubariri. And it's like that with everything—the names of these four schools are always floating around, you just don't notice. Now, to the main point. Danashafu, Shirubariri, Seijo, and, of course, Dakisyuro. Each school has its own specialty. Danashafu—high technology, advanced and experimental teaching methods. Shirubariri—military discipline. Real military discipline; they probably even go to the bathroom on a schedule. Seijo… well, religion. And Dakisyuro—martial arts. You all know I'm not much of a fighter—I can do a bit, sure, but… My brother, for example, got beaten a couple of times in his very first month there. And by then he already had the rank of Warrior. Though back then I didn't care, and if I hadn't met Eva, we probably never would've met, guys. When I refused to go to Dakisyuro, my father called me a coward for the first time, — Roko said, staring at the ceiling. — And he didn't even suggest I go to another school from the four. But anyway. If you had a clan or family backing you, Shinji, I wouldn't say a word. But as it is, be ready—they'll test you from the very start. What's worse is that you fight even worse than I do.
Well, that explains things. He doesn't really know much about me. And of course, he doesn't know about Shina. Though honestly, it'd be better if she kept quiet. By the way…
— Tell me, Roko, how exactly did meeting Eva affect your decision not to go to Dakisyuro? She's younger than you. You didn't skip a year, did you?
— She studied at a combined school. Middle and high school on the same campus—just different buildings.
I stayed with them for another twenty minutes, until anticipation finally got the better of me. After all, I didn't come here just to eat for free—though that's nice too, later. First, I needed to check out my purchase, which had been delivered here yesterday. Why not to my home—I think that's obvious. Secrecy.
— Alright, guys, as fun as it is with you, I've got some business to take care of. You planning to stay long?
— Hmm, — Roko glanced around the group. — Depends how it goes, but we're not leaving anytime soon. At least a couple more hours.
— Perfect. I'll be back when I'm done.
— Deal, we'll be here.
Getting up and stretching, I headed straight for the bar, where Shotgun was bustling about. Well, "bustling"—right now he was just standing behind the counter, calmly wiping an already perfectly clean glass with a towel.
— Greetings, Honda-san.
— And to you, don't get sick, — he replied in Russian. He hadn't actually studied the language—he only knew his native Japanese—but he had memorized plenty of phrases in different languages and liked to show off with them. — How was your first day at school?
— Looks like every adult today made it their mission to ask me that question.
— A sign of care, I suppose, — he shrugged in response. Then he smirked, set the glass beside him, and leaned on the counter. — So? What good did today bring you?
— Nothing so far. But nothing bad either, which is already nice. How about you? I hope at least the same.
— Heh. Just an ordinary day, but the night promises to be profitable, — he said, glancing over my shoulder.
— That's true, — I replied, turning around. — Quite a crowd tonight. By the way, how's the old man? Still tinkering with his gadget?
— I've got no clue about that. Maybe he's already messing with something else—I don't stick my nose into your business, you know that. Though your package arrived yesterday, and now he's been circling around it ever since.
— Must've seen the accompanying sheet, — I smirked. — Ever since he… settled here, he's gone completely crazy over his electronic toys. I should probably unpack the package before he loses it completely.
— Doubt it, he'll always find something to occupy himself with.
— You think so? I'll go check on him anyway.
Leaving through an inconspicuous door—only Honda and I had access cards for it—I headed straight down the corridor. Turn right, another door, behind it a hall and two more doors—mine to the left. No matter how many times I walk these halls, they always feel like a maze.
Finally reaching the right room, I looked around. It looked like an ordinary apartment, just with fewer windows. The door to the workshop was in the next room, and that's exactly where my target was—since I couldn't even hear him from here.
Entering the workshop, I got the owner's attention:
— Hey, Fantik, how's life for a wanted criminal?
Turning toward the voice, the old man frowned:
— Yesterday I managed to dig up all the available—and some restricted—information on your order, and you only show up now? My beard's going bald from curiosity already.
— That only means I've got a bit more patience than you.
— Just open it already, I want to see that bag of microchips, — he waved a hand behind me.
I walked up to the container standing near one of the workbenches.
— Only one here?
— Yeah. The rest is in the storage, — he added with a grin: — among vegetables and fruits.
— I see. Why so far away? Who even accepted the delivery?
— Honda.
— Damn, my mistake—I didn't warn him. — I scratched my nose. — Oh well. I should set up a proper base somewhere, with a training ground and shooting range. This place isn't really suitable for that kind of stuff.
— A training ground? Good luck with that. I'm even curious where you'll find that much land.
— Outside the city, Fantik. Outside the city.
— And the money for rent? And for building whatever you'll use to disguise what you're actually building?
Interesting question. Not about the money, but everything else.
— Well, I'm not planning to do it right now anyway.
The container was a plastic square box, about half a meter by half a meter. Breaking the seal, I finally saw my purchase — KP3/7-3p. A pilot suit for mobile armor, third generation, seventh variant. Matte black, fire-resistant fabric with thirty percent Kevlar. Two layers, with nano-protection—so-called liquid armor—between them. Rigid parts of the body reinforced with Kevlar plates. Auto-doctor system. Artificial muscles amplify the pilot's strength threefold. Overall, it has a third protection rating by Imperial Russian standards—that's where the suit came from. Just to be clear, it can withstand a full AK magazine at point-blank range. Not into a single spot, of course.
Changing right there in the workshop, I did a few squats, threw a quick one-two punch, dropped into a split, then from there went into a handstand, arched into a bridge, and ended up back on my feet.
— Not bad, doesn't restrict movement at all, — I said, looking at my hands and clenching them a couple of times. — Though for my… night work, the gloves are a bit too rough.
— They come off easily, if anything.
— True, — I agreed. Magnets and velcro—what could be simpler. — Alright, let's check out the helmet.
Matte black like the suit, with some kind of filler allowing comfortable wear for people with different head sizes. Equipped with a tactical-analytical module capable of tracking up to one hundred fifty targets. The cameras had twelve-times zoom and a directional microphone that could pick up conversations from about six hundred meters, filtering out background noise. A wide optical spectrum—X-ray, infrared, terahertz, and so on. Naturally, protection and durability: a bullet to the forehead wouldn't harm either me or the electronics. And of course, suit and body monitoring—you probably guessed that already, thanks to the auto-doctor. Oh, and the helmet uses electroencephalography—meaning it's controlled by thought.
— Not bad, — I said after playing with the settings. — Very, very nice.
— Impressive, — Fantik remarked. — I wonder where Nakata-san managed to get so many military suits in such a small size?
— What?
— The size. Where did she find such tiny suits?
— I'm going to kill you.
— Grow first.
— You're dead.
— Alright, alright. I'm serious though. You're not going to argue that you're short, are you?
— First of all, I'm only slightly below average for my age. And secondly, I'm still growing.
— And also, you're Japanese, and like all of us, on average shorter than Russians—that's where these suits came from.
Alright, let's say he got away with that.
— It's military equipment, which means it's universal and adjusts to the pilot's size. Besides, don't forget—they don't take giants as pilots for mobile armor. Not that all MD pilots are small, but it's preferable.
— But what about…
— Infantry MDs are a separate matter. Let's go to the training room instead—I'll at least kick the dummies. — Though what dummies? Just ordinary makiwara shaped like a human silhouette.
Halfway to the hall, Fantik turned off somewhere toward the kitchen, while I went down into a small basement—one of seven in this building. I don't know why I'd need to find out what this place originally was, and honestly, I don't care.
The training hall was a small room, about ten by fifteen meters. The floor was covered with tatami, the walls painted green. Long fluorescent lamps lit the room. In each of the four corners stood makiwara bolted to the floor and padded with tatami, so they looked like they grew out of it. Two slanted protrusions at the top gave them a human silhouette, and crude cartoon faces drawn with a yellow marker made them look comical.
Approaching the one to my right, I feinted a jab, then sharply threw a hook to the upper part. A one-two to the body, a right hook, a left, a knee to the center, a low kick to the lower right, a left hook, and as a finisher—a straight kick to the center.
Walking up to my victim, I checked the result. The makiwara itself held up fine—it wasn't made of wood—but the mountings were giving in. The pseudo-human was clearly wobbling. Pure physics, nothing more. In this hall, I never use my abilities—otherwise I'd be exhausted from cleaning up and reattaching these things to the floor.
— Excellent gear for light infantry. Maybe even excessively good, considering the price, — I said without turning around to the old man who had entered. — But for me, the suit's strength is excessive. I should run a test… — I began, turning around, but when I saw what Fantik had in his hands, I stopped. — You're a crafty one, old man.
— This morning, when I was reviewing the documents on this thing, I noticed the muscle enhancers. If it had pseudo-muscles, you could at least adjust or disable them, but like this… what's even the point?
— Precision. In a combat robot you roughly pull levers, but in mobile armor you control the limbs directly. However you move your hand, that's how the suit reacts. And the controls there are stiff, as far as I know. So without enhancers, it's difficult—though I don't really follow the latest developments, maybe they've fixed it. But anyway, I've got proof to the contrary right here, — I finished. — Did you take all the eggs from the fridge?
— Why bother with small numbers? I'll have to clean up after you anyway.
— What nerve. When have you ever cleaned up after me in the training hall? — I smirked.
— And you're planning to smash them right here?
— Uh… — I looked around, — you're probably right, let's go out.
We didn't go far—just stopped in the corridor.
— Maybe we should find a better place, lay down some plastic or something?
— Then why did I carry these eggs here?
— No idea, — I said honestly. — Maybe you just like it.
— You little brat.
— I'm a teenager, I'm allowed to be little.
— Come on then, teenager. There's plastic in the workshop. And the shower's nearby.
— The shower?
— How do you think I'm supposed to deal with that suit afterward? We'll have to wash it.
— You think so little of me. What if we don't have to?
— Plastic is still needed anyway.
When we finished, I realized things weren't as bad as they seemed at first. Out of eighteen eggs, I broke ten. And that was with them being thrown at me. So adaptation should go pretty fast—the main thing is to find time for it, which I now have less of because of school clubs. Time… always the problem.
Having finally satisfied my curiosity, I went to the shower without even changing. I wanted to rinse off anyway—and clean this device at the same time.
After the shower, I went back to the workshop, where my suit was immediately snatched from my hands. Looks like the old man couldn't wait to take apart this piece of Russian military engineering.
— Be careful with it. It'd be a shame if you couldn't put it back together.
— I will, don't worry. I know my limits, and I vouch for this suit. I'm more of an engineer than an electronics guy, and I'm not going to dig too deep, — he replied without turning from the table and my purchase. — And why are you panicking anyway? You've got fifty more of these in storage. Why so many?
— First of all, I'm not panicking—I'm just curbing your excessive curiosity. And I bought so many because it's a rare item. If I don't use them, I'll resell them. If I had more free money, I'd have bought even more—can't hurt to have them around. It's a pity about the money, but I'll earn more. These suits, though, might not be available later. I barely made it in time as it is—out of a thousand units, maybe a hundred were left, and that was after just a week of sales. Eternal glory to Akemi. Had to pay for five of them for her, though—but that's nothing.
— I see… I see… — Fantik muttered. He clearly hadn't listened to a word I said. — And what's the price on these?
— One million one hundred thousand.
— What?! — that got his attention. — One million one hundred what?.. — he asked, turning toward me.
— Rubles, of course. Not yen. — I should probably clarify: in this world, rubles are just as much an international currency as dollars were in mine. Here, the dominant currencies are the Russian ruble, the American dollar, and the Indian rupee. The yen is valued roughly at one to ten compared to them—meaning one yen equals ten kopecks.
— Holy crap! — he glanced at the suit on the table. — Why didn't you say that earlier?
— Would that have stopped you?
— No… you're right. Only your prohibition would, — said the… engineer, and froze, looking at me.
— What are you staring at? — I spread my hands. — Haven't seen enough yet?
With a snort, he turned back to his table and muttered over his shoulder:
— Greed isn't your thing, huh?
— Don't say that. My heart still bleeds when I remember how much money I spent, — I shook my head, even though the only other person in the room had his back to me. — Believe me, I've got plenty of bad traits, and greed is among them.
— Whatever you say, Sindzi, whatever you say.
— Alright, I guess I'll head out, — I decided, glancing at the clock. — I might even have time to hang out with the guys.
Right by the door to the hall, I got a text message. One look at it made me almost spit. Honda informed me that Nakata Akemi was in her VIP room and wanted to talk to me. God, when is this day going to end?
Stepping into the hall and nodding to Shotgun, I headed toward the VIP rooms—there were only six in this club. On the way, I met Roko's взгляд and shrugged apologetically. I really did want to sit with them—it's not like we hang out that often. Getting a nod of understanding in return, I continued toward the door leading to the corridor with the rooms, in one of which Akemi was waiting.
I wondered what she wanted badly enough to show up here at night without warning me beforehand. If it had been urgent, she would've contacted me directly to make sure I didn't slip away. And if it were something serious, we wouldn't be meeting here. So I entered with the expectation of hearing a job offer—profitable, since I hadn't taken anything else in a while, not urgent—that was obvious, and possibly interesting—because today was the annual meeting of the heads of Garagarahēbi, and judging by the timing, she had come straight from there.
— Hello everyone, — I said, entering the room.
Akemi was lounging on a long sofa, Isiatama stood at the bar dealing with drinks, Dzuno leaned over the table studying what could only be described as a heap of food, and Li was pressing buttons on the music center built into the wall to the left of the door.
— Same to you, — Akemi waved lazily.
— Hey, Sin, — rumbled Isiatama. Dzuno and Li just nodded.
— What, the rodent's sitting in the car again? You're cruel. — Looks like that walking disaster had messed something up again.
— It'll do him good, — Akemi replied with satisfaction.
Just as I thought.
— What did he do this time? — I asked, sitting down opposite her on a similar semicircular sofa.
— Oh… in short, he managed to wreck my car. — Strange, Mouse is a skilled driver. Wonder how he pulled that off. — But the best part is, he did it using the body of some poor guy who, like him, was waiting for his boss. The car was parked right in the middle of the lot, surrounded by dozens of others. And that idiot managed to throw the guy from the edge of the parking lot and hit exactly my car! Out of dozens! — she exclaimed, puffing her cheeks and crossing her arms.
— Mm… uh… — what could I even say. — Good thing he works for you. My nerves aren't that strong.
— Pff, — she deflated and suddenly looked a bit gloomy. — Still, he always survives. But enough about that pest. Better tell me—how was your first day at your new school?
— What is it with everyone and that first day, — I shook my head. — Just a normal day, like any other.
— But…
— I'm too lazy to talk about something that amounts to nothing. Let's drop it. Better tell me—what interesting things happened at the meeting today?
Every year on April sixth, Garagarahēbi throws a gathering, inviting everyone who's anyone in the organization. It's all dressed up as a formal dinner where conflicts are strictly forbidden. And of course, the purpose isn't just to eat well.
— Quite interesting, surprisingly. Interesting and… troubling, I'd say. For you, first of all.
— "Young beautiful lady," let me remind you it's nighttime, and I didn't spend today lounging around doing nothing. I'm tired and I want to sleep, Akemi, so let's skip the dramatic pauses.
— You're a nasty, annoying, pedantic type, Sindzi. But I'll still start from a bit further back, — she said calmly. — First, let's clarify your abilities. First of all—lightning.
More like electricity, but yes, I've got that trick.
— You can't release it from your hands, but you can deliver a solid shock through contact.
Outdated information—about two years outdated.
— Next—speed and reaction. Both at Veteran level.
One single encounter with a Master—where all she knows is that I managed to escape—suggests my speed and reaction are… somewhat higher.
— Mm… strength? Yes, probably. You can punch through a brick wall with your bare hands.
She really underestimates me.
— Magnetism—I've seen you pull cutlery toward yourself a couple of times.
When I realized that kind of thing was possible in this world, I allowed myself a few demonstrations. It was a subtle hint toward lightning or magnetism adepts—to reduce questions. And yes, metal is easiest, though I can work with any non-living material.
— You once mentioned that poisons barely affect you, so we'll add that too.
That hint actually pointed to three elements at once—life, earth, and lightning. Why those specifically, I don't know. Though water adepts also have resistance to poison, just to a lesser extent.
— There are other minor things, but overall it all points to you being a lightning adept, roughly at Warrior rank.
I stayed calm—I hadn't steered her toward that conclusion for nothing. The real problem was whether I had revealed anything else before starting my little "PR campaign" in favor of lightning. But it seemed I'd pulled it off.
— And now it gets much more interesting. — It's always like this: when I jinx things, I really jinx them. — First, let me mention your ability to sense gazes. Many people can do that, but you… you're something else. I've been observing you for five years, and I can say with confidence that your level in this ability is off the charts.
Damn… observant kitty.
— Next comes "yaki." — "Killing intent"? What does that have to do with anything? Lots of people can project "yaki." In fact, I haven't met anyone of Veteran level or higher who couldn't. Even Shina—a sheltered girl—uses it quite skillfully. — In itself, "yaki" isn't surprising, just like sensing gazes. Many possess these abilities, but in your case, once again, it's not like with normal people…
— Time is passing, lady. Enough with the dramatic pauses already, — I said, earning an offended look.
— I can just go home, you know. You think I enjoy explaining things to you?
That's exactly what I think.
— Alright, alright, I'm quiet, — I raised my hands.
— So, "yaki"… Yours is extremely strong. I think you could stop an adult's heart with it, let alone animals or children. It probably wouldn't work on a trained fighter, but it would still interfere and disrupt them in combat. Up to Veteran rank. Beyond that, the effort doesn't justify the result. For comparison, the strongest "yaki" I know is about ten times weaker than what you can produce. And your "killing intent" is your biggest giveaway—sometimes such horror leaks from you that it's unbearable, and you don't even seem to notice it.
Damn, I should give her a lecture. Resistance to "yaki" doesn't depend on rank—it's all about willpower. I could send Shina to the grave just fine, and she's a Teacher. But the part about me not noticing it—that's new. And very unpleasant.
— What's next… ah yes… I don't even know what to call it. "Spatial control"? "Life detection"? Or maybe "360-degree awareness"? I don't know. There are analogues, of course, but those are techniques, usually narrow-focused. Yours is a constant ability. And the range… A year and a half ago, in that nameless village, I even calculated the approximate distance at which you can… "see." I still remember your words back then. — She smiled, closed her eyes, and tilted her head up: — "Southwest. Five. Three hundred meters. Moving fast toward us." Considering you tensed up even earlier, you must've sensed them at around five hundred meters. That's unreal for a passive ability. I'd go crazy in your place.
Yeah, because you're a woman. Witches can't compare to witchers in that regard. They don't go insane only because they pass out first. And by the way, the more people around, the smaller the radius—like in a city. Also worth noting that was a year and a half ago, and now I'm far stronger. Not that she needs to know that. Though I'm still nowhere near Stone—the American gunfighter, their equivalent of Russian witchers. Rumor says he could control a ten-kilometer radius. But then again, I'm not a Shadow—I'm a Destroyer.
— And finally… no, not that… the only truly unpleasant thing here is that you don't use bahir. — Keep your face steady, Max. Keep it steady. — Or rather, you can't use it. None of your kind ever could.
"Your kind," huh. Interesting.
— Just so you know, I used to think I was unique.
— I'm amazed at your calm. I'm revealing your secrets, and you don't even react. Don't you have any questions at all?
— Mm… how did you figure out I don't use bahir? As far as I know, no one can see it, and even a Virtuoso can only sense a person's location—not whether they're using bahir or not.
She froze for a moment, then leaned back on the sofa.
— That's a dangerous question—for both of us. And I didn't expect such a mistake from you.
— Explain, — I said.
— What you just described—that's how most scanning or detection techniques work. But sensing the movement of bahir? Anyone at Apprentice level and above can do that. The only difference is distance. Apprentices can only feel it through direct contact—they need to touch the person. A Virtuoso, on the other hand, doesn't need that—they can sense bahir at around five meters. Depends on experience. But I've never heard of anyone going beyond six.
More than enough to expose me—someone like Koyama could easily do it. Damn, I messed up. All I had to do was ask Shina's father more about it. That was two years ago, and only my paranoia kept me from acting openly and at full strength. Though the Koyamas shouldn't have noticed anything—I never used anything in front of them. At least, I don't remember doing so. With Akemi, everything's clear. But the rest… I need to think. Six meters isn't sixty—maybe it's fine. Damn it, I'm being stupid. This isn't about hypotheticals—there's clearly a reason, which means it's not fine.
— Alright, that's in the past, — I said, massaging the bridge of my nose. — Better tell me why you even started this conversation and what all this means for me.
— At today's meeting, I overheard people discussing the Tokyo Dwarf. That alone isn't new—they've been talking about you for years. But today, someone jokingly called you a Patriarch. People laughed, of course—but the word was said. And now you need to be three times more careful. — And she just looked at me. Looked and stayed silent.
— You're really pushing it, Akemi. Go on already. I'm a Patriarch, I get it. What next?
— Sindzi, you knocked me off track.
— I… what? You little parasite… Fine, forget it. You were about to explain what Patriarchs are and why it's bad for me to be considered one.
— Oh yes… Patriarchs! Listen carefully, Sindzi. A simple term, but so much meaning. Patriarchs are men whose children, in three out of five cases, are born with Master-level potential—and in the other two, Virtuoso.
Oh… my… God. I'm dead.
— Oh. I see. — I looked around, as if saying goodbye to my relatively peaceful life. — They'll tear me apart for parts if they find out.
— No, Sindzi. Parts can't reproduce. More likely, they'll chain you to a radiator and rape you every day.
Who knows for sure that I'm a Patriarch? Akemi, her four soldiers, and probably Fantik. Kill them? Sure, I could—but then what? Besides getting a pile of minor and medium problems, I'd also lose a lot of opportunities… Though, who am I kidding—I just don't want to do it. None of them has given me a reason to doubt their loyalty, and being a person who trusts no one is… difficult. And unpleasant.
— So I have to hide for the rest of my life now? — And I was even thinking—well, considering—eventually presenting myself as the creator of an exclusive style. Over time. And now what? — Is there any information about other Patriarchs?
— I can only tell you commonly known facts… and a lot of rumors.
— Let's stick to facts, — I said with a tired sigh.
— Very well. Then we should start with the currently living, though old, Harry Alder. He's eighty-seven now, though that's beside the point. He was discovered either during or shortly after World War II. He was given one of the princesses, thus becoming part of the British royal house. The exact number of his children is unknown, but rough estimates put it at around three and a half dozen.
— Wow.
— That's nothing. Ugh, don't interrupt me. Around the same time, two more Patriarchs were discovered—one Russian and one German. — Like the start of a joke. — But they both died soon after, leaving about fifteen children each. They supposedly belonged to some clans, but honestly, I don't know much about them.
— Sorry to interrupt. Do you know how they died?
— The Russian died at the very end of the war, in June of '46, I think. Officially—some illness. Unofficially—he killed himself. The German disappeared in '51 along with the submarine he was on. — I doubt she knows what he was doing on a submarine instead of being under protection in the capital, so no point asking. — Next, going further back in time, we have Hayashi Oshu, a Patriarch from the Meiji era. He took part in the Boshin War—first against the Tokugawa, and after the Emperor's call, on the opposite side.
The Emperor's call. Yeah… in this world, the Meiji Restoration went very differently. In my world, it was just a power struggle between the Tokugawa shogunate and aristocrats using the Emperor's name. Result: the shogun was replaced by a prime minister, and the Emperor remained a figurehead. Here, Meiji rallied the remnants of the shogunate's forces and issued the so-called Emperor's Call to the clans. Many clans joined him, along with some aristocrats from the other side and even common people eager to join the now real imperial army. The war dragged on for two more years, ending with the restoration of absolute monarchy in Japan—and the last creation of a new clan.
— He was accepted into the Asuka clan and, they say, lived quite a social life. In exchange for his relative freedom, he had to… well, sleep around extensively. As you can imagine, it's hard to say how many children he had. — Yeah, I doubt the elite publicly advertised that they'd offered up daughters, sisters, wives—or even mothers. — But his lifetime was marked by the appearance of Virtuosos all across the country. Not immediately, but still within his lifetime. Though during World War II, we lost most of them—only fragments remained. — Plus some died after the war, from old age and such. Right now Japan has seven Virtuosos, four of them "post-war," while before the war there were around thirty—at least half of them Hayashi's children. So yeah, fragments. — Considering that at best one-third of children become Virtuosos, our prolific Patriarch fathered around fifty-five kids. And in that regard, he surpassed Alder. Even though the Englishman is still alive, I seriously doubt he can have children at his age. Though… either way, he won't catch up. Hayashi, by the way, died of old age.
Damn, she looks good. Leaning back, one arm draped over the sofa, idly playing with a wine glass—she reminded me of a panther at rest: relaxed, but ready to explode into motion at any second. With a pretty impressive chest, too… ahem, never mind that. I wonder if she knows I like girls with long braids? Considering she's been wearing that hairstyle a lot lately… probably yes. She must've noticed about a year ago—I'd never seen her like that before. Or maybe it's just paranoia mixed with ego?
— What year?
— Huh?
— What year did Hayashi die?
— Fifty-five.
If this Hayashi was a witcher like me, it's strange he died so early. We live very long lives, theoretically. In my world, people like me rarely died of natural causes—job hazards. Those who did live long were… not exactly strong anymore. So was Hayashi weak? Or are Patriarchs not witchers after all?
— Was he strong, this Hayashi?
— Huh?
— Hey, wake up. I'm still here.
— Sorry, Sindzi. What did you ask?
— How strong was Hayashi?
— Around Veteran level. No Patriarch has ever gone higher. There aren't even legends about that. They were all roughly on the same level. — Right, she mentioned that earlier.
— Have you heard of many Patriarchs? — I asked.
— About thirty.
Damn!
— That's not all of them, of course, but try gathering information about people scattered across centuries—people others prefer not to write about.
— Then how did you—
— A girl who wants to give birth to a Virtuoso will go to great lengths. And we all want that, in case you didn't know. I just happen to have more opportunities.
Great. Just what I needed.
— I see… And who was before Hayashi? — I changed the subject.
— An American. The son of the founder of the Gates clan. His father distinguished himself during their revolution—a successful general or something. He died at the age of 101. Of old age. Also a Veteran, if that matters to you. I have no idea how many children he had.
— Doesn't really matter, — I said, glancing at the clock. I'd deal with analysis and planning tomorrow. No rush right now. — I think I'll go. Tomorrow morning's going to be rough. — I yawned. — And thanks, Akemi. I'll contact you later—you understand, I'll definitely have more questions about this.
— When you go out, send Mouse in, — she said, lazily waving her hand. — Better keep that idiot close before he causes trouble.
— Got it. — I downed a glass of juice and chased it with something sweet, then stood up and stretched. — See ya, guys, — I waved. — Beautiful young lady, — I added with a bow toward Akemi.
Just as I reached the door, her voice caught up with me:
— Do I have any chance at all?
I almost stumbled as I turned around.
— More than anyone else, — I said, looking at her. — For now.