Androsov Estate
25 km from Saint Petersburg
Prince Ivan Vasilyevich Androsov was in a deeply irritated state. Neither his beloved imperial fish soup nor the succulent fish pies baked by his chef brought him joy. He took pride in his chef, as it was no easy task nowadays to find someone who could truly master traditional dishes from olden times. The gastronomic market was increasingly dominated by tartares and foie gras, but the prince remained a staunch advocate of traditional imperial cuisine.
It was the third day since his heir, Andrey Ivanovich Androsov, an eighteen-year-old youth, had gone missing.
The Androsov Lineage was an ancient one, long renowned for its Healers. A rare but highly lucrative Gift, and with proper training, promising even in combat conditions. Consequently, the princely Androsov Lineage was fabulously wealthy. Their Healers tended to the Imperial Family, a fact that spoke volumes.
However, Andrey was not fond of rigorous physical training. Every combat master hired by his father threw up their hands in resignation. The boy had no interest in training, and his father couldn't force him. Ivan hoped he'd outgrow it and come to his senses later. He didn't, and Androsov had resigned himself to it.
Still, his son wasn't foolish, focusing on sharpening his mind instead of combat skills. He could live well as a healer.
"Papa, don't be so upset! Andryusha will be found!" Katya Androsova, a striking brunette with large brown eyes, Andrey's sister and best friend, tried to soothe her father. From childhood, they were inseparable, and Katya worried deeply for her wayward brother.
More than anyone, she understood him. Many things bored him, but his most challenging trait was stubbornness. If he wanted something, he'd do it; if he didn't, no amount of effort could sway him. She believed he wouldn't come to harm but hoped their father would find him soon. She only feared it wouldn't further strain their already fragile relationship with him.
Androsov Sr. had pulled every string and wielded all his influence to locate his beloved son, but Andrey had vanished without a trace.
His phone, credit card, and even his family signet ring remained on his bedside table in his impeccably tidy room.
Ivan Androsov wearily rubbed his eyes, alternating with massaging his temples. To think how serious his son's intent to "disappear" was—he'd even left his signet. Without it, you were nobody, your pedigree irrelevant.
Ivan had a suspicion. His heir had shown too much interest in Rifts and old legends where combat healers bravely shared the hardships of humanity's true heroes—Monster Slayers.
Slayers, or "Ists," were highly respected in the Empire, but few lived past thirty, let alone to old age.
He'd even be pleased if Andrey became an Ist, but untrained in combat, he'd perish before reaching a Rift.
A foolish endeavor, the prince thought. They already had everything one could desire! Anything else, including reliable escorts from poor but strong aristocrats, they could afford without regard to cost.
Not to mention their Lineage had plenty of strong aristocrats who could take him on a light stroll through a minor Rift. But… Androsov was to blame. In a heated argument, he'd forbidden his son from even thinking about it, and now deeply regretted his temper.
Could Andrey have headed to the Epicenter? Insufferable boy! No matter. Too many people were searching, and they'd find him eventually. Then he… No, he wouldn't yell. That wouldn't help. A serious talk was needed! But if that failed, punishment awaited. Such behavior was unbecoming of an heir.
For the first time in my eighteen years here, I felt something familiar and… free.
Ists were militarized units not directly subordinate to the Epicenter Army's military administration. Mobile groups of at least three strong Gifted operated at their own risk, signing full liability waivers.
The concept of Slayers emerged long ago. The Epicenter Army's layered defense consisted mostly of commoners or those with minor Gifts, holding defensive lines at the Epicenter's edge to keep creatures from residential areas.
Rifts in their zones were bombarded with artillery, and portal mages, supported by infantry, closed them, restoring "neutral territory."
But deeper Rifts opened, their danger lying in gaining strength over time, with creature flows increasing monthly.
With aviation nearly unusable in the Epicenter due to flying creatures that could snap aircraft in half, the only solution was to reach the Rift on foot and close it "manually."
This was the Slayers' job, alongside scouting "neutral zones" and directing artillery fire, typically tasks for novices. Given the relative "safety," even lone operatives were allowed—a test of "professional aptitude."
Ists had a Charter, somewhat different from the Hunter's Code but with similarities. The key difference was the commander's strict accountability for their subordinates' lives.
Our Code was different. Hunters were typically lone operatives, each wielding powers these "half-mages" couldn't dream of. When Hunters temporarily united, each was responsible for their own life. This didn't mean we didn't support each other—quite the opposite—but if a comrade died… Well… "Happy Hunting in the next life!"
Here, each team member's death was a major mark against the commander's record, potentially leading to removal from command or a "wolf ticket"—expulsion from the frontlines with no return.
This likely stemmed from the value of Gifted individuals and their Lineages' complaints. Since full aristocratic status required Epicenter service, highborn heirs occasionally appeared, their lives invaluable to both Lineage and Empire.
They didn't need to join the Ists; they could serve in line infantry, commanding a company or battalion. Even meeting only the minimum quota was fine, but reputation was fragile. So was prestige. Without an ancient Lineage or long pedigree, over a hundred expeditions could earn deserved respect.
I learned this, and more, from Andrey. He was a pleasant conversationalist, initially shy but gaining confidence as he warmed up.
"Look at those girls," I nodded toward two women idling in the dining car.
The restaurant had become our haunt over the past days. Today was our last day, and we'd soon arrive.
"Eh… so-so…" Andrey didn't appreciate their beauty, blushing slightly.
"Should we introduce ourselves?"
"I'm out," he dodged. "I have a fiancée."
"So? Has the Empire banned polygamy?" I feigned surprise. "Let's have some fun. If you're scared to approach, give me two minutes, and I'll handle it."
"My answer's the same," he stood firm. "They're not my type, and honestly, I don't want to. I have a fiancée, and I won't ruin my reputation. What if I get one pregnant? Live knowing I ruined my child's life, making them a bastard? Or look into my wife's eyes and see judgment?"
"Mmm… got it…" I understood his point. "How many wives does your father have?"
"One… my mother."
Mystery solved. He's following his father's example. I, however, won't stop at one wife. It's not just my nature, though that's part of it. The souls I absorb greatly affect me, giving an energy surplus that boosts libido. I fear one wife might not survive me, poor thing.
Our talk was interrupted by security rushing past.
"Something's up," my friend noted.
Since I had no friends in this world, why not him? He's a decent guy. I can smell rot from miles away, and he's clean.
"Let's check it out—we've been sitting too long," I stood, stretched, and followed them.
Andrey sighed, reluctantly rising. He didn't want to go but was bored alone.
Who'd have thought… Security headed to the viscount's compartment, where it was noisy. I heard him yelling as guards spoke sharply.
"You know who my father is? Want me to make one call and have you flogged? Get that bitch out of here, and I don't want to see you again!"
I smirked knowingly. Andrey had explained why the security and staff were so bold. The imperial Romanov family owned all trains. Misbehave, and you'd get what's coming, especially if you attacked them. They didn't hire weak Gifted for security.
"It's your right to call, but we must investigate," a guard dismissed him. "We've already informed the police."
Getting closer, I saw what was happening. Security was removing a body—not one of his lackeys, but a young woman.
"I'll say it again!" the viscount, with a broken nose and battered face, boiled over. "She's my servant, and I did what I wanted. I'll pay a fine at home, and that's it. Now leave!"
The woman, about twenty-five, lay dead, her body covered in bruises. She couldn't endure it and died.
You're scum, viscount…
Andrey looked grim but composed. He'd likely seen bodies before, being a healer.
"Let's go…" I wasn't staying.
I'd seen enough. We walked back in silence, skipping the restaurant. Each went to our cabin to pack. My things were ready, but I needed time alone.
In my room, I sat on the bed and closed my eyes. I despised such types. I'd beaten him, so he took it out on a defenseless girl.
How many times had he done this? In my past life, I'd kill such men, and no one could object. Here? I wanted to kill him now, a whim of mine. I'm not a pampered boy afraid of blood. I'm a warrior bathed in it, with death as my companion.
I could challenge him to a duel and kill him, but then what? His Lineage would cause me endless trouble, and I didn't know exactly what kind. I understood my precarious position.
After sitting and convincing myself it wasn't my business, I exhaled. It didn't work… I couldn't let it go. I struggle against my desires.
Time to act.
I touched my chest, calling my dormant Gift.
A sun bloomed in my chest, and I felt the response of many souls. They wanted to serve… wanted freedom and were ready to move on.
I hadn't expected to use it so soon. But it was my desire.
Closing my eyes, I focused. It had been a while, bringing a flood of pleasant memories. In my past world, I did this rarely. What I was about to do required immense energy, with less payoff than my full strength. But this world… At ten, I realized I could combine my Gift from this world with my past world's.
Got it!
I created an illusion of an Anthracite Snake on the floor—a tiny thing, six centimeters long, thin as a wire.
Recalling how many it could kill, I smiled. Then I delved into my soul, extracted the soul of an Anthracite Snake, and infused the small orb in my hand into the illusion.
I felt my energy drain as the illusion became real—a living snake.
"Viscount Myasov Jr., your target," I commanded, looking into its eyes. "One bite, and you're free. Slip into his suitcase and strike when he's far from here, preferably in his room or estate."
"Sh-sh-sh-sh…" it hissed and slithered off.
Every monster I've killed lingers in my soul. There used to be many; now, fewer. Reincarnation took most, but I still had a small reserve I planned to replenish.
I can create an illusion and infuse it with a creature's soul. But it's not simple. I can't make a Minotaur and infuse it with a mocking toad's soul—only a Minotaur's.
One command, and the creature dissolves forever, moving to reincarnation or wherever it goes.
Commands vary, and I can set durations—a year, even ten. But the summoned feeds on my energy, and if it runs out, they leave early.
I summoned Shnyrka.
"I want to see him die. Follow and show me."
Later…
"Siberian Express," Car 12…
Georges Myasov was suffering. Suffering from constipation, perched on a pristine toilet in the first-class restroom.
But constipation wasn't his main issue. His two bodyguards, sent to kill that brazen upstart baron, had vanished.
Worse, he'd broken his favorite toy. Taya was perfect, with a high pain threshold—crucial for his… ahem… games with the servant. Yes, she took a lot, but she'd long accepted her lot, never daring to defy her master, silently enduring as his "punching bag" when he was in a foul mood. This time, he'd gone too far…
Now what?! Where would he find a new toy that wouldn't scream when his boot struck their stomach, only whimpering, swallowing blood and tears?! What a day! And he hadn't even reached Irkutsk!
Georges squirmed on the toilet, to no avail. Too tense. Without rising, he reached into his satchel for a packet of forbidden but oh-so-helpful substance. Expensive as hell, made from otherworldly jelly. Some idiots claimed it was addictive with side effects. Fools! What bliss it brought!!!
As he felt the hidden pocket's packet, something bit him. The young aristocrat yelped, jerking his hand back to see two tiny, bleeding punctures. Then his vision blurred, and excruciating pain surged as venom coursed through his veins.
He tried to scream but couldn't make a sound. The venom first paralyzed its victim, then struck every nerve, causing hellish agony. The heart couldn't withstand it, and the bitten died in torment.
When he collapsed from the toilet, his eyeballs burst from the strain. But he felt nothing.
Nor did he hear the satisfied "B-b-b-ashtord!" from the shadow under the sink.