Szarel’s heavy staff struck the stones in rhythm with his and his guards’ steps as they approached Itil, who was waiting by the tall iron doors. The grim symbols of the former ruler had already been chiseled off the surfaces, replaced with intricate golden shapes that together formed the circle of the Planet, with accepted faiths included within.

The raider stood radiant beside her brother. For the occasion, she had dressed in a gray woolen dress that almost concealed the body armor worn underneath but left her leg exposed, marked with old bullet and knife scars. An emerald belt cinched her waist, holding her personal terminal and a light pistol in its holster. Precious blue stones glittered at her neck. Her growing hair was styled in waves, alternating between gray and its natural color. Her washed skin glowed with health.

“You are beautiful,” Szarel said flatly.

“Not so shabby yourself.” She extended her hand.

The magister accepted her fingers into his smooth gray palm and inwardly agreed with the statement. Not a single muscle ached to remind him of the replacement of most of his body. After the battle, he had been brought to the president. He remembered little of what had happened but eagerly demanded video recordings for study. A lake of flesh had enveloped the magister, dissolving him into a liquid state and methodically rebuilding him cell by cell, restoring him better than before. Though physically he did not limp, lost no height, and had returned to peak health, a void gaped in his soul, partially filled by recent news.

Fahim had called. In his still-jumbled speech, he recounted a vision. Jake had visited him in his sleep, as if grabbing his hand and pulling him out of the frozen quagmire that had been clouding his thoughts.

From a scientific standpoint, he found no explanation for this phenomenon, but his son’s condition was rapidly improving, and Fahim no longer slipped into infantile oblivion. Perhaps a genetic mutation had been activated. Or something else. He had heard theories about people dozens of kilometers apart sensing the final moments of their relatives.

Either way, a father should not fall behind. Szarel handed his staff to a sergeant and pulled out a gray mesh.

“What is that?” Itil asked as he began stretching the fabric over his face.

“A holographic mask.” The rubberized ends settled into place, and a brief flash transformed his appearance. Connected to his subcutaneous muscles, the projection smiled at the governor-general, displaying what his actual body could not replicate. “I decided you should see the real me before the ceremony.”

Honoring Jake’s request, he had abandoned his experiments with the drug, handing over the research data to kindred spirits among the Troll scientists. Szarel could not be both a researcher and a leader without compromising both roles. Who could say how their mission might have ended if he had listened more to Chernogor and worked harder to accept the Order’s changes?

“You’re wonderful either way, you juicy morsel.” Itil touched the mesh, stretching the Magister’s lips. “Just don’t ask me to put on a muzzle. I have no complexes about my appearance.”

“I find your appearance pleasing. How are things?”

“The guests are behaving themselves.” Merhzlad pulled out a terminal. After the procedures, the swelling had vanished from his face, color was returning. He looked thin; the clean, spotless colonel’s uniform hanging loosely on him. Itil never let her brother go anywhere without two gangly bodyguards following him like shadows. “Yesterday in the city, there were nineteen attempts at sexual harassment and various degrees of assault by recruits against locals. The perpetrators are locked up, their amnesty annulled, and measures of restraint are being determined. Considering their origins, our recruits are being model citizens.”

“Just hang the lot and be done with it,” Itil said, taking Szarel’s arm.

“Can’t do,” Merhzlad replied. “Yes, people may miss Draz’s swift justice, but he caused far too much collateral damage. No, to wean the population from summary executions, they must grow accustomed to civilized methods.”

“Correct,” Szarel agreed. “What about hospitals and food supplies? Resistance?”

“Shortcomings in the far corners; within the city walls and main settlements, everything is ideal. Corporations will take on the responsibility of improving local life and building infrastructure in exchange for mining rights. This plays into our hands; our utmost focus now is teaching literacy. Bahran’s people took the last holdout in the west with minimal losses on all sides. No independent bosses remain. At least none openly declaring themselves.”

“We have ways to persuade potential rebels,” Itil purred.

“Profit is the best incentive,” Szarel said.

“I agree; their organs could benefit law-abiding citizens…” She rolled her eyes at his look. “You can’t show weakness in imposing order. You of all people should know that scum must fear even breathing wrong around civilians. I remember one charming Troll who executed all his prisoners. They say he later shanked Paikan himself.” She adjusted his doublet’s collar. Her warm breath pleasantly brushed his neck. “And no mercy.”

“There is no greater power than the act of mercy,” Szarel replied. “And mercy is the best healing balm for the soul, judging by how you’ve blossomed.”

“Fine, I’ll give it a chance.” Itil turned to face the doors after the first bell toll.

She smiled at her brother from the corner of her mouth. The colonel touched his cap and departed with his bodyguards.

“I’m sorry,” Szarel said.

“I’m satisfied with everything. Maybe we’ll still grow into each other.”

On the third bell toll, a beam of light cut through the opening doors, and the couple entered the vast hall to deafening applause and cheers. This had once been an observation post. Workers had removed the armored panels from the southern side, revealing a semicircular view of Rabor. The turrets, ammunition supply lines, and defenders’ cots were gone.

Now soft carpets covered the clean floor. A green runner embroidered with the Oathtaker welcoming the faithful stretched from the northern entrance to the windows. Farther along, the embroidery changed to the emblems of various Oathtaker regions, to which had been added a sun enclosed in an onyx circle—the symbol of Volnitsa.

Tables laden with refreshments lined both sides of the hall. The couple was first greeted by Ruda, Ney, and Yeshua’s sergeants standing in formation; their leaders stood at the center of their units. Chernogor, promoted to chief of the magister’s guard, waited with the veterans further ahead. The veteran had refused to become the founder of a new order but agreed to rejuvenation procedures. Wrinkles and gray hair were gone; his eyes held youthful energy, and his limbs had regained their flexibility. He explained that he could not leave the young to carry the burden alone.

Behind the crusaders gathered civilians and former raiders, including several surviving Paikan soldiers who had instantly sworn allegiance to the new government after discovering their ruler’s corpse. There was no way to try an entire region, so the bandits received full amnesty on condition of joining the arriving Oathtaker military units. Freshly minted sergeants and lieutenants declared their loyalty at the ceremony.

In reality, the former rulers had virtually no levers of power left. Among the walls, amid bustling servants, figures partially hidden in shadow stood motionless, watching everything with steely, attentive gazes. Light from installed bronze lamps shaped like roaring lion heads obscured snipers in recesses, ready to subdue any potential assassins. Such attempts had already occurred.

Every step, every decision, and command from the former enemies was first confirmed by military or civil officials arriving from the Land of the Oath. Even Itil no longer led her gang, having transferred full authority to her appointed state deputy. The exceptions were her brother and a few civilian figures granted limited autonomy.

Fifty years. The people of Volnitsa would not receive the right to vote or self-determination for half a century. They could not even travel to other lands of the Oath. Essentially, the region was placed under a sort of quarantine to prevent the spread of crime and disease and to accustom the people to independence and tolerance.

Independence through oppression. Such an approach left an unpleasant taste in Szarel’s mouth as he waved to guests, accepting congratulations and smiling falsely. Reporters filmed the ceremony, emphasizing the unity of mutants and Normals, the powerful and the powerless.

The police chief’s adopted son clapped with his metal prosthetics, nearly choking with mirth. Unable to resist, Szarel lifted the boy with telekinesis from his father’s shoulder and set him on the runner.

“What esteemed guests honor us with their presence.” Itil bent elegantly, shaking the steel fingers. “Is everything to your liking, sir?”

“The soda is wonderful! This is so much fun!” the boy exclaimed. The fact that his arms and legs had been replaced with sturdy metal prosthetics didn’t bother the child in the slightest. “Is it true you’ll help the other kids on the streets?” He pressed his fists to his chest. “Please! People bailed me out many times.”

“No one will be left behind.” Szarel ruffled the boy’s thin hair, not elaborating that the street children had already been rounded up and doctors were doing everything possible to treat various forms of radiation poisoning, burns, malnutrition, and a whole host of illnesses. No need to dampen the little one’s spirits—besides, the worst was behind them. “When you grow up, you too can write your achievements into our glorious city’s pages. For that, you need to study hard and choose a profession you like.”

“I won’t let you down!” The boy saluted.

“Us,” Szarel corrected. “Get used to saying ‘us.’ We all live here together.”

“Yes! Dad said that Uncle Chernogor and you are real sons of bitches. That you don’t lie and keep your word like flint. And that you got yourselves a proper whore.” He looked around in confusion at the roaring laughter around him.

Ruda started first, followed by Ney and Chernogor, setting off a chain reaction and turning awkwardness into a pleasant surprise. Swift had the decency to blush, but Itil smirked and waved at him.

“He’s right. I am the most proper whore here.” She gave the boy a couple of coins and sent him back to his parent.

Poor reporters. I hope this isn’t live. Szarel led Itil to the priest waiting by the window and El-Satanini, proudly clutching the Order’s standard. Among other victories, the unjust pacification of the country had been added to the banner’s record.

It all seemed so strange. The Onyx Order had been placed at the head of the restoration. Seven hundred crusaders, along with fifty-six thousand Oathtaker soldiers, forty-three thousand mercenaries, and hundreds of thousands of arriving civilians. Considering the crimes committed by his predecessors, this felt like an insult to more worthy candidates.

Szarel and Itil knelt, listening to the priest’s instructions. So much lay ahead: establishing local self-government—no, creating it from nothing; ensuring security, food supply, and clean water. Just building the delivery infrastructure would be a trial, given the frequent collapses and the terrain’s perfection for ambushing convoys.

“Do you agree to take Itil’s hand before the face of the Planet, Szarel el-Farah?” the priest asked.

Their eyes met. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating Rabor as it was rebuilt. Toxic smoke clouds no longer rose, plunging the streets into darkness. Excavators and bulldozers smoothed over sites of executions and modernized factories to current standards. Trucks rolled down the main street, delivering aid without fear of being cheated. Educators gathered civilians, explaining rights and privileges. Queues formed at hospitals. Drug dens were being converted into shelters. Authorities allowed brothels to operate officially but removed all minors.

The underground chambers of the slave market were repurposed into cold storage. Surgeon-slave traders were given an offer: serve public health or go to prison. A host of priests interviewed former slaves, compiling data on administrators and locating missing relatives. If the unfortunate had no one left or wanted to start anew, there was a place for everyone. The arena was closed, with the former site of slaughter prepared for sporting events.

Workers painted houses according to the voting results. Timid firecrackers burst over carnivals celebrating liberation. Citizens had not yet grasped freedom. They looked around timidly and responded eagerly to any police call, nearly throwing themselves to their knees, while raiders sometimes pushed passersby out of the way, apologizing through gritted teeth after a supervisor’s shout. Old habits would not disappear so easily.

Delacroix led morning prayers in the square near the fortress, attended by thousands. Szarel gazed thoughtfully at the city illuminated by golden rays. This long-suffering country deserved to become an island of stability and prosperity where no one would be forgotten.

“I do,” he said, slipping a ring onto Itil’s finger.

His wife reciprocated, placing a ring on his and taking a bouquet, which she threw into the jostling crowd.

Fifty years to change human nature and carry out reforms. He intended to do it in twenty-five.

****

A pleasant breeze swept across the parking lot, gently stirring sun umbrellas and lounge chairs. Waves lapped at the crescent of white sand stretching north, wetting the feet of a few lovers. The weather was beautiful, with scattered clouds, seagull cries undisturbed by the morning calm, and the horns of pleasure boats sounding like greetings from awakened neighbors.

Vacation! Ruda left the car and inhaled the salty air, not yet tinged with the spices and cotton candy aromas being prepared in the numerous wooden shops scattered along the beach. The last months had not been easy… Enough! Ruda slapped her cheeks under Ney’s ironic gaze.

He said nothing, simply placing a hand on her shoulder. Casting aside thoughts of duty was not easy. It was hard not to worry about a potential knife in the ribs while sleeping or to stop checking the car for hidden explosives.

The Oathtakers’ capital was located on the shore of a sea that had once been a toxic wasteland. The two main docks gleamed white, receiving hordes of tourists arriving to visit this exotic location. Many did not understand how water could be salty. In this sense, Iterna’s limited isolation played into the Land of the Oath’s hands. They reaped enormous income and influence from the influx of visitors.

Between the shipyards rose the colossal castle of Lord Steward, though the president rarely stayed at his residence, resolving issues across different parts of the country. In his absence, this symbol of prosperity served an administrative role, with an appointed council coordinating civilian and military efforts. From the castle, a bridge stretched into the sea, wide enough for three to walk abreast. Adorned with statues of saints and heroes, it led to a quiet sanctuary.

From every corner of the broad sea, the majestic stainless steel tower was visible. Centuries ago, a space fleet flagship had crashed here, contaminating everything around it. The Oathtakers had remedied the catastrophic damage, restoring greenery and removing radiation. All valuables had been stripped from the ship, and for a long time, it served as a training center for Oathtaker priests, where the Oathtaker tested the flock, gently correcting their flaws, and instructed future rulers to be humble and care for both the faithful and the faithless.

The Founder chose not to extend his life and passed peacefully, surrounded by friends and grateful citizens, entrusting the difficult work to his comrades. No one considered themselves as exceptional as he, so the empty ship was turned into a mausoleum, placing the Founder at the very top where his spirit could rejoice in the country’s deeds. The lower levels were claimed by the oathguards, the Insectoid elite, the nation’s unparalleled champions. Once they had been taken from their parents as children, raised in strictness, and indoctrinated with absolute loyalty to the Oath.

Through activists’ efforts, such traditions were rightly deemed barbaric. Oathguards were rarely born; today their number reached only three hundred. Their value was incomparable, but how could citizens deprive children of their childhood for their own benefit? The honored service became exclusively voluntary, and in the sanctuary’s training halls, believers and heirs—as the recruits untouched by the indoctrination were called—underwent the most grueling trials, honing their skills to perfection.

At the thought of being near such heroes, Ruda felt excitement and a desire to test herself against them. The consequences of accepting the power were showing. Something animal had settled in her, becoming a full member of her “I,” but it no longer frightened her with its rare growls intruding into her thoughts or its constant nudges to challenge others to duels.

“Hm. We survived,” Ruda said with mild surprise.

A finger tapped her forehead.

“Let’s not dwell on the eternal today,” Ney asked.

“I’ve had enough of answering the chicks on the way here,” she laughed, automatically glancing at the suspiciously silent terminal on her belt. She had forgotten how precious silence could be. “Were we really that green?”

“Worse.” Ney shook his head. “Our cabin is down the right path. Shall we head there to start the fire?”

Ruda turned toward the road. Her perception shifted, her pupils changing shape, picking out a distant bus on the horizon heading their way.

“The first guests are already here. Let’s wait for them.”

Together, they pulled two frozen containers of real beef shashlik, drink packs, and snacks from the trunk. The parking lot gradually filled with more cars, and Ruda watched a family of snow-white Ice Fangs. A tall man settled his daughter on his shoulders, holding his partner’s hand while two squealing older children raced down the stone stairs to the beach and then across the pier’s beams. A blink later, spray flew up. The woman called out to the children to behave.

Habitual suspicion pricked at her. Why would aristocratic Ice Fangs visit the Land of the Oath, crossing such a vast distance for a simple swim? How coincidental that their car parked nearby? Perhaps she should contact intelligence, warn them, and keep an eye on…

Nonsense, of course. Just tourists. Their rivals had nothing as magnificent as what the Oathtakers had created. Rivers and lakes were fine, but nothing compared to the blue of a true sea.

The crusaders wore form-fitting swimsuits that left arms and legs bare. They had opted not to wear sandals, trusting the resilience of their skin. The breeze carried salty droplets, and blue scales appeared on Ruda’s neck. She grinned and crossed her arms, watching the approaching bus.

“Let me help,” came a voice as the doors opened.

“Rustam, drop the servile behavior. Just because you’re a Normie and I’m Blessed doesn’t mean you have to follow outdated social norms…”

“I was just offering. Then, the last one there’s a toad!”

“Hey! Where are you going?!”

First out was a boy in a brown leather jacket and jeans. The trace of implanted skin on his chin had completely faded; his muscles were stronger, and his hands easily held a school bag and a large duffel, with flesh filling out his frame. The fractures had healed without a trace; his posture improved, his gait steady. Months with the family had done Rustam good, as had Mom’s cooking.

Behind him, a slender girl slipped through the narrow gap between exiting passengers, managing not to bump anyone. Bluish scales covered most of Dahel’s body; a stylish cap pulled down to her ears hid her hair, while hardened foam concealed the middle finger of her right hand, which had become a venomous stinger. Her sleeveless leather jacket was open, and the gifted animist wooden amulets clacked with her movements. Her t-shirt read “Freedom or Death” in red. Like her brother, she carried a backpack adorned with Iterna hero pins and a bag.

The Land of the Oath’s school curriculum mandated that all children visit the capital. This served several purposes: to give the younger generation the wonder of travel, to show them the greatest city, to introduce them to students from other regions… and, of course, the trip included a visit to the sea. It was easier for people to understand what they worked for after personally witnessing the achievements of collective effort.

Ruda’s siblings’ class was coming tomorrow, but as an exception, her family had been allowed an early outing.

“Hullo!” Ruda stood before the kids. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

“Thought you’d be digging into the meat without us.” Rustam shook her hand. She pulled her brother closer and hugged him, despite his protests.

Let him be tough somewhere else.

“Tempting. But after some thought, we decided to drop barbarism in favor of cooked dishes.” Ney ruffled Rustam’s hair.

“How are you, Dah?” Ruda pointed to her hair.

“You know that’s baseless discrimination based on biology.” Her sister grimaced. The fabric of her cap shifted. “I won’t magically gain better control over my body parts upon reaching adulthood. Forcibly dressing like a nun is a stupid atavism, just like…”

Ruda spread her arms. Perhaps because of past mockery, Dahel had never quite fit in at school. Those who thought her older sister could secure them noble titles tried to befriend her. Such acquaintances Dahel kept at arm’s length and respected far more those who asked her for academic help. She valued honesty.

Dahel had attended a party for the first time a month ago, invited by Rustam’s friends, and though her brother assured she was “thawing,” social isolation had left its mark. After talking at length with her older sister about Iterna, Dahel had joined an equality party aiming to abolish segregation in kindergarten education, lift restrictions on mutants and the Blessed in schools, and eliminate distinctions between citizens.

The young activist had become more sociable, participated in debates with mixed success—which was gratifying—but her frequent grumbling worried the family. Still, no one reprimanded the girl. Everyone was entitled to their hobbies.

Dahel hesitated for a moment, then hugged Ruda tightly.

“Even if you serve an oppressive regime, I missed you,” she muttered, burying her face in her sister’s stomach. “Can’t hear anything.”

“What do you mean?”

“We bet that a certain workaholic only had one reason to come back…”

“I’m not a workaholic,” Ruda protested. Then she remembered her recent behavior. “Well, maybe a little.”

“A total workaholic! You’re always looking for something to do… Come home more often, okay?” The skin between her scales reddened.

“I can’t promise, shorty,” Ruda replied bitterly. “Things are getting calmer, but with my luck, the second I promise, something terrible will happen.”

“Then don’t promise. Just try.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Ruda pulled the cap off Dahel’s head.

Dozens of snake-like coils unwound, rejoicing in the sun. Foam covered each mouth of the living hair, moving above the girl’s head.

“Won’t we get fined?” Dahel whispered.

“You see a tattletale or any teachers nearby?” Ney nudged her with his elbow. “Let’s go, you must be hungry.”

“The hotel had a wonderful breakfast.” Rustam tucked his sister’s cap into his bag. “Honestly, I’m a bit nervous about touching anything there. It’s all so old. Bronze handles, statues, carpets… What if I break a stair railing and cost a fortune?”

“Cheap imitations. Business decorations.” Dahel put her arm around his shoulder. “I’d be surprised if there’s a single piece of the Old World wood… Toad!”

She dashed toward the edge of the parking lot. Swearing, Rustam raced after her as the crusaders chuckled. Descending the stairs curving right around a two-story restaurant, the couple, laden with food, walked along the white sand path past tourist shops and lifeguard observation points. The staff worked well, combing the area several times a day, so they didn’t step on buried trash or forgotten items.

The runaway pair was found nearby, no longer arguing about who was the toad, standing facing the open cabin Ruda had reserved.

The round gazebo, much wider in diameter than those meant for Normies, stood at the edge of the beach in the shade of planted trees. Hammocks stretched between them for those wanting to rest. A Troll, squatting next to a smoking grill, critically turned skewered meat. Inside the gazebo, a massive sphere with tentacles expanded and contracted, enthusiastically telling raunchy stories in a female voice and pouring soda into paper cups arranged on the table.

At first, Ruda thought some tourists had taken their spot. Not critical; vacation agencies resolved such issues instantly. Suddenly, silver flashed from a prosthetic, and Rustam literally leaped, embracing a sturdy Malformed. Gosha’s spikes protruded through his torn t-shirt. Each spike was covered in setting gel, and he worked his mechanical limb without any difficulty.

“Fine morning,” the Troll said without rising from his knees.

“Are you Decimus’s father?” Ruda asked. “I thought we agreed you’d arrive later. We don’t even have a table ready for you.”

“We wanted to surprise you.” Decimus stood up from the bench, greeting everyone. “Plus, I don’t like onions on meat…”

“They’re disgusting,” Dahel interjected.

“Completely overpowers the flavor,” Decimus agreed, glancing at Dahel. “You Ruda’s sister? Was your group brought to the city too?”

“Yeah, to a hotel in…”

Ruda let the kids get acquainted. Gosha extended his prosthetic, and suddenly his hand shot out, flying through the air to snatch a cup without spilling the soda. The chain connecting the metal fist to his wrist retracted, reattaching the limb, and Rustam whistled in appreciation. He then began telling the Malformed about his visits to the mines, fascinating him with the modular augments used by miners.

The crusaders exchanged greetings with Decimus’s parents, learning that Sylvie and her father had called and would be there in half an hour.

“Dad said Grisha would come today too,” the Malformed girl reported, handing Ruda a bottle of mineral water. “He offered to watch him, but the agents said that wasn’t a job for a simple major. Snobs.”

“You must be Philona?” Ruda took a sip, hearing the strain of the swimsuit. The girl’s neck elongated and thickened with a crack.

How nice to no longer be stuck on alcohol alone. Mineral water was worth accepting you. The beast inside grunted.

“Yep. Call me Phi and let’s be on a first-name basis. Duval brought us early…”

“Duval? The Reclaimers’ Prince?” Ruda asked, surprised.

“Honestly, I have no idea what he does in his free time, but I don’t think Dad managed to become a prince or commit treason while I wasn’t looking. Although with him, you can never be sure,” the girl said dryly. “There he is.” An appendage pointed over Ruda’s shoulder.

From the netted-off safe area for younger swimmers, a wave rolled toward the shore. Starting small, it swelled rapidly, moving fast and leaving white foam in its wake, as if a sudden storm had blown over a narrow stretch of water. Parents scooped up children, lifeguards leaped from their posts, covering dozens of meters, while Gosha chuckled, calming the rising tension among the crusaders.

Finally, a pillar of muscle and bone erupted from the water, striding onto the shore. Covered in algae over a thin dive suit, the gigantic Malformed moved past the lifeguards and gaping tourists. A fish stuck in his plates was instantly ground by the toothy maw. Each step compacted the sand.

“Swimming’s pointless. There’s nothing interesting at the bottom,” Duval grumbled.

“Because you’re too heavy to stay on the surface,” his daughter called out.

“You calling me fat and weak, you little shit?” His bladed arms scraped against each other.

Ruda licked her lips, gripping her elbow. Strong. An echo in her head called out a challenge, to dive into the blue and test herself against a potential contender…

“Fawn,” Ney warned.

“Right,” she laughed. “Let’s have fun.”

She could always arrange a duel later. The beast inside eagerly agreed, begging not to miss the opportunity.

****

Maruno Barjoni stopped before the closed doors. Dressed in a strict red tuxedo with a black shirt, the gray-haired man extended his hand, adorned with a family ring, toward the colorless surface. Blue rays highlighted his perfectly tanned skin, hidden cameras scanned it for any irregularities, and the liquid metal barrier flowed aside, granting him entry into the matriarch’s recreation hall—the inner sanctum of their mansion.

Carved from a single block of marble, the space was completely devoid of the usual luxury of their dwellings. No statue, painting, or humble rug disturbed the calcite view, shrouded in semi-darkness.

Identical bodyguards stood in the room’s corners. Symmetrical down to the last hair and the placement of the handkerchief in their business suits, these guards had long lost all humanity. Literally. Their eyes behind sunglasses assessed Maruno and returned to their primary subject. They did not breathe. Resurrected from family members who had passed before their time, they had been perfected to an ideal state using the best bioengineering, including forbidden and psychologically damaging enhancements; their brains had been implanted with countless protocols. They had become robots in human shells, forever losing their original appearance.

An undeniable demonstration of loyalty. Few were willing to sacrifice their legacy or memory of themselves. Maruno himself had forbidden such procedures on his own body and, as always, tried to identify his brother among the bodyguards.

Pointless.

Maids in red dresses and dark aprons waited at the edges of the vast pool containing the purest concentrate of silver-white restorative fluid. At first glance, the babes resembled responsible little angels, their slender necks adorned with gold necklaces shaped like coiled snakes, their hands without the slightest callus resting on their aprons. Miniature, beautiful, each was capable of tearing apart even an Abnormal with their incredibly strong fingers or lifting a car.

No others were permitted here. Candidates who wished not only to marry into the Barjoni family but also to engage in family business were sent here after extensive surgery. Under the mistress’s attentive supervision, they cultivated patience, honed personal skills, and gained experience by attending negotiations. Some would become directors of public branches; others would secure government posts. Rarely, very rarely, could their stepmother not cultivate greatness in them.

The chief maid curtsied, and Maruno kissed her fingers, stopping the beauty with a gesture. He sensed an acrid taste and a pungent smell. A normal citizen would lose consciousness upon entering the room. Most assassins would not last more than a few steps. In its pure form, the restorative fluid worked miracles on joints, while its invisible vapors brought death.

But what Barjoni would be afraid of poison?

Maruno knelt, waiting patiently. If it were up to him, he would have gone to a restaurant with his wife and daughter to celebrate the successful completion of sixth grade. Yet patience honed discipline, and he doubted Grandmother would make his dear one miss her father for long.

A bubble swelled on the pool’s surface. Cointa Barjoni, Matriarch of House Barjoni, rose, almost reaching the ceiling with the humanoid protrusion on her forehead. Her writhing body, with cracks like revolver shots, straightened her many three-fingered limbs, longer than Maruno. Violet, gold, and red window-like eyes blinked on her thick torso stalk, shedding droplets of fluid. Maids immediately dried her, and a helpful blonde opened an umbrella emerging from her bracelet, shielding the visitor.

“Grandmother,” Maruno said respectfully. The matriarch was his great-great-grandmother on his mother’s side, but she always insisted on that address. “Is this a convenient time to speak with you?”

“Your manners are impeccable, as always. Proceed, share the thoughts weighing on you, Maruno, and we shall consider how to ease your worries.” The fat lips of eight mouths sloppily smacked, reproducing the polished speech of a society matron. In close circles, Cointa preferred not to use devices to conceal her speech defects.

A three-fingered paw patted him. His enhanced physiology prevented broken bones, and Maruno kissed the gray, porous flesh full of snaking muscles.

“The autopsy results for Paikan and Draz have come in.” He stood, clasping his hands behind his back. “No signs of cellular aging. Excellent organ integration. The surgery allowed Paikan to safely use his power.”

“Wonderful. Immortality without the need for rejuvenation injections.” A nearby mouth smiled. “At least one of your cousin’s schemes was successful.”

“Release him from the asylum?”

“Planet, no.” Cointa waved her hand. “The Barjoni no longer engage in genocide. Since he staged such a lamentable overture without considering the family, the family no longer considers him. Let him stay where he is.”

“Let. I hear mountain weather is curative,” Maruno agreed vengefully. He would have arranged the bastard’s death personally, willingly going into exile, if the matriarch decided to show favor.

“Despite their physical perfection, scientists remain concerned about the mental aspect. Paikan’s temperament shifted drastically after the enhancements. Psychologists still debate whether this is a consequence of his encounter with the Mad Hatter or a hormonal change.”

“Don’t interfere with them,” Cointa said. “I’m leaning toward the theory that his character changed because he realized his insignificance in the world. All these power wielders rely too much on their crutch. Knock it out, and their confidence cracks. But if I’m wrong, actual side-effect depression and possible psychosis will negate the product’s entire potential.”

“I think that would be unprofitable. There is another complication. Draz’s transformation.”

“No. No. That absolutely cannot be permitted.” Cointa straightened, encircling Maruno. The terminal embedded in her body activated, downloading the report files and transmitting them directly to her brain. “The human body is perfect, beautiful. Ugliness is unnecessary.”

He did not reassure her otherwise, knowing how sensitive the matriarch was on this subject. Any compliment would be taken as an insult, though he had no intention of lying.

“As you say. We obtained eyewitness accounts and tissue samples from Draz. Paikan, unfortunately, was cremated, and we must rely on stolen data rather than full analysis. Nevertheless, scientists are confident that the second subject’s mutation occurred due to external influence. His genetic code was altered, and the chemical bonds in his brain underwent changes vaguely similar to those of your bodyguards. Someone or something rewrote his personality. If we had not been pursuing this line of research, they would hardly have established the connection so quickly.”

“External or not, let them continue the research,” Cointa ordered. “Only willing subjects, recruited from every corner of the world. A hundred or five hundred years, it doesn’t matter. We have all the time in the world, grandson. Let’s not be stingy with caution. Unlike the fools of the past, we will not end up being surrounded by filth and ruin.”

“Undoubtedly, Grandmother.” Maruno inclined his head, acknowledging the wisdom of patience. “I will convey your wishes. I have a personal request. Our hospital center in Stonehelm has brought us dividends through mining contracts. What about repeating the play in Rabor? Valuable metals, remnants of the Old World, lost mysteries await enterprising owners.”

Maruno tried to speak without emotion, steering the matriarch away from the true reason for his proposal. His blood had committed unjustifiable acts against the innocent. The dead could not be resurrected, but the weight of duty pressed on his peace, constantly arising as an annoying reminder when reading news digests and reports. The Family’s intelligence chief had secretly made a personal donation, but he had the means to do much more.

The Barjoni always paid their debts. Sooner or later.

“The Family’s resources are stretched,” Cointa straightened again, hovering over the pool. “Careless greed risks bursting us. Better not to weaken the center by sending more mercenaries to guard enterprises in the wildlands.”

“Prudent. The Oathtakers have cordoned off the region. It’s in their interest to end the risk of epidemics. Let them serve as our faithful hounds in exchange for access to top-tier medicine.” He shrugged.

The head maid’s tense expression in her blue eyes did not escape him. Cute. The babe was ambitious and wanted her husband promoted. The executive director of a potential trade hub promised many intriguing opportunities in the future.

Excellent. Another voice to persuade the matriarch. And no hint of his own weakness.

“You’ve sided with Enrico’s faction.” Massive fingers tapped her gray chin.

Due to unprecedented prosperity, the family’s internal politics had splintered. The prudent and ambitious Cointa insisted on maintaining a partial presence in criminal spheres, promoting talented offspring into politics to strengthen influence within Iterna. The reclusive and competent Enrico, commanding the muscle and mercenaries, directed his followers to become legal and so indispensable that the government could not even think of limiting Barjoni privileges. Finally, the talented and fiery Gustav, a rising star of the House, advocated aggressive expansion and seizure of barbarian resources, albeit with moderation.

Each option had its merits, so Maruno refused to confine himself to a single ideology.

“I’m on the side of profit,” he answered. “In this situation, Enrico’s methods serve that. That’s all.”

“Just business,” Cointa said.

“No. First family, then business. A trickle of money is merely securing our future.”

“Glad we’re on the same wavelength.” The matriarch leaned on the pool’s edge. “So many opinions have arisen lately… Ah, well, stagnation is far worse. Don’t mind my grumbling.”

“Your wisdom is always welcome, Grandmother.”

“Shameless flatterer. Inform Enrico that negotiations are on his people. Also, notify Gustav—he complained about Iterna’s suffocating borders. Let him prove himself,” Cointa ordered. She glanced at the head maid. “I will select a suitable candidate in the meantime. And grandson…”

“Grandmother?”

“Draz’s speech changed after… the ugliness. Your agents noted a mention of some deity. Could this be connected to the cultists causing massacres in Iterna?”

“Attempting to cause,” Maruno gently corrected. “No, of course not. Simple ravings of a madman. These cults spring up daily.”

“Hm. Hm. Mad Hatter sought a god. Draz suddenly became religious. The drug-damaged minds of religious fanatics…”

“Heathens.”

“If you say so. Perhaps the outbursts of violence are not as disconnected as you think, Maruno. Task our agents. If some cunning parasite is working behind the scenes…” The mouths smiled, “the Barjoni would be only too happy to sell this information at a reasonable price to any interested party.”

****

A note from the author: Thanks to everyone for reading! Stay safe and happy!