Following the incident in the shower, matters proceeded calmly. The individual rescued was none other than Viscount Hans Schroeder, the son of an impoverished yet proud Lineage from my "native" Prussian Principality. Naturally, I was unacquainted with him—his Lineage was far too minor compared to my former one.
"If you cannot provide your son with an inheritance, only a name, ensure he earns his own fortune." This must have been the guiding principle of Schroeder Sr. when he sent his heir to the Epicenter Lands. A prudent decision. The career of a Slayer is perilous and arduous but can yield considerable wealth, accompanied by significant respect.
Okhotsky and his group merely sought to "rough up the Fritz." Despite the Epicenter being situated on Russian Empire territory, access was open to nearly anyone willing to participate.
There was always a shortage of Slayers. The sole distinction between Imperial subjects and foreigners was the training fee—waived for Imperials, charged to others. In the case of someone like the viscount, a loan was provided, to be repaid upon becoming a Slayer. A reasonable system, in my estimation.
The shower altercation had minimal consequences. It was widely understood that those who chose the Slayer profession were volatile and unpredictable. Moreover, as aristocrats, they inexplicably seemed intent on eliminating their peers rather than channeling their energy constructively.
I comprehend conflicts over resources or even waging war—the world is harsh, and the strong prevail. However, killing over a glance or a bold word? That is something I will never reconcile with.
All participants survived, were healed, and my reputation as a "peculiar renegade" was further cemented. I welcomed this development. Andrey found a new audience in Hans, who was grateful for the assistance. This was another advantage—while I appreciated Andrey, he could be exhausting at times.
The week passed swiftly. The curriculum provided a robust theoretical foundation for Rift missions, with much of the time dedicated to testing cadets, as exemplified by the sparring sessions.
Practical training was paramount, but instructors needed to ascertain each cadet's strengths, weaknesses, and potential to form effective raid groups.
Once again, I distinguished myself by refusing to disclose my Gift, limiting tests to its "physical" attributes. I also refrained from revealing my full strength. Why? Merely the ingrained caution and overthinking of a Hunter, nothing more.
In my previous world, inquiring directly about a Hunter's abilities was inconsequential, but the questioner would be regarded as a fool. Trust was earned over years. Those who collaborated knew each other's capabilities; others had no need to.
My "General Physical Enhancement" score was a solid four, based on my sparring performance, as I had been "frugal" during the test, expending just enough energy for a three. When asked, "How so?" I shrugged, looked the officer in the eye, and stated candidly, "I perform better under stress." He feigned belief, and we parted, mutually satisfied.
Today marked my final day at this esteemed institution. Everyone regarded me as deranged for declining to join a group Rift mission, asserting I would manage alone.
They reprimanded me, but the instructors did not press too hard. My performance during lectures, where they quizzed me on monsters, convinced them I was not an imbecile.
Truthfully, memorizing fifty creatures was effortless. Some were familiar, and I had my own methods for dealing with them, though I kept those to myself.
The night was eventful. I barely slept, anticipating trouble, and tasked Shnyrka with keeping watch. When he streamed a live feed through his eyes, I knew it was underway.
Baron Okhotsky could not let it go and orchestrated a nighttime ambush. All I can say is, it was a brief ambush. I waited by the door, and as they entered, I struck.
This time, I avoided faces, targeting torsos and limbs. No need for disciplinary issues before graduation by leaving visible bruises.
A direct kick sent Okhotsky flying three meters, and he did not rise. The fool neglected to don armor, intending to do so by my bedside.
I knew a few nearby cadets were awake but feigned deep slumber. One non-noble, portly fellow even faked snoring.
Okhotsky brought the same crew, and they crawled away as before. I refrained from finishing them or speaking—just put him in his place.
I could have broken every limb, but he might retaliate against Andrey. Though unlikely—Andrey is a count, Okhotsky a mere baron. Initially, they were unaware of each other's status. Okhotsky, a provincial noble, had not heard of the Androsov Lineage. Senior barracks mates enlightened him, calling him a fool. Equality prevails here, but not beyond…
Androsov Sr. could eradicate the Okhotsky Lineage while their heirs are here.
"So, you're leaving?" Andrey asked. "Sure it's not a mistake? Lone Slayers don't last long."
"Leaving. Got my ring," I pulled it from my pocket to show him.
"Cool!" he marveled. "Wait! Why's it red?!"
A pertinent question. I was issued a ring with a clear "blank" stone.
When a Slayer wears it, the stone reflects absorbed Rift energy. Mine turned red immediately, surprising the veteran at the Training Center. He likely assumed I had fought monsters in Europe. The old man chewed his lips, said nothing, made notes on the terminal, and turned it to me.
My "Personal File" displayed proudly: 5th-Class Slayer. The ring did not deceive, its red hue confirming my new rank.
"Here's your answer to your clueless instructors wondering about your 'odd' strength," the old man couldn't resist before I left. "Cases like this are one in a million. Can I ask? Where'd you hit so many Rifts?"
"Must I answer?" I smiled.
"No, just an old man's curiosity," he replied, losing interest, slightly offended. "You're free! Good luck… colleague!"
Recalling that exchange, I grinned at Andrey.
"They say I'm too badass for white but not quite rainbow-level. Settled on red!"
"So, you're a 5th-Class Slayer?" His eyes widened. Earning even 6th Class takes a month of relentless Rift runs.
"Something like that," I said modestly, looking down.
"You're not so simple, Galaktionov!" he chuckled kindly. "Didn't waste time traveling. If you want to join a group, message me. I've got your number, and I'll ask my future team to take you."
"Deal," we shook hands and parted.
I headed for the exit but was halted.
"Stop!" a shout, more like a growl.
I turned. Helga was fast-walking, almost running, toward me.
"Look who's chasing me!" I grinned. "Couldn't forget my kiss? Want another? No? Hmm… How about we grab a bite, and you reconsider?"
"You're such a…" Cold emanated from Helga.
She instinctively activated her aura. An elementalist!
"So chilly!" I teased. "Should I melt your heart?"
I don't know why she pursued me, but now I'm dodging her swings.
"Had enough fun?" I asked, holding her in a lock, immobile.
"Let me go, you… idiot!" she fumed.
I complied, leaping back to avoid a jaw punch.
Flushed from the struggle, she panted. Hmm… The more I look, the more I like her. Something… familiar! That same inflated ego! Haha!
"What the hell are you doing, idiot?" she snapped. "A week of training, and you're going solo into a Rift? But you know what? I don't care! Do what you want! I just want one more kiss!"
Whoa… She surprised me, but her sly look kept me wary.
"I can arrange that," I grinned, sensing a trap.
She leaned in clumsily but confidently, lips forward. Then I saw… Her lips! Damn… She'd charged them with so much Gift energy, a kiss would rip mine off like ripe apples.
Clever revenge. She's no mere Warrior—that much energy could shred a Royal Death Knight.
I could probably withstand it, but why expose myself? So, I kissed her cheek…
"Your lips are too cold today, bunny," I let go, leaving her angry and disappointed. "See you around, maybe. Bye!"
"Kill you…"
I didn't hear who she planned to kill, exiting through the gates, flashing my Slayer ring as proof of my right to a "free life."
Now what? So many thoughts, so little clarity.
I checked in with myself—what do I want? A woman… Later… Damn, old habits die hard. I hope my old personality doesn't fully resurface, or local aristocrats are in for trouble. I was far harsher then. This world feels like a vacation.
I hailed a taxi and requested a clothing store.
The driver asked a few questions, understood my needs, and drove me. He noticed my red ring, and his demeanor shifted. Slayers are deeply respected here. A Slayer's ring is a fine substitute for a Lineage signet, I reckon… But I'll get a Lineage ring too. A matter of principle.
I chose a sportswear shop for light, practical Rift gear. My suit wasn't ideal, and I didn't want to wear the cadet Slayer uniform I'd taken, which would attract attention.
I spent thirty-five rubles in the store for three solid outfits. Could've bought more but wasn't sure what suited best. No need to roam in armor.
Waterproof, sturdy fabric, comfortable fit, and durable, lightweight boots with thick soles. Good for cracking skulls if needed.
"Anything else?" the seller offered.
"Chaos stones would be nice…"
"Uh…" he faltered. "I don't follow, Lord Slayer. I meant clothes."
I'd be shocked if he pulled chaos stones from under the counter.
"Then I'm good," I turned and left.
The taxi waited, as I'd asked. The meter was running, so the driver was content.
"Where to?" The man, about fifty in a business suit, kept quiet and drove without prying.
"A budget-friendly cold weapons shop."
"Two options: one's run by a non-noble old man, owned it for twenty years. The other's owned by the Agaev Lineage."
"The non-noble one," I chose.
No need to tangle with Lineages after buying gear, especially in a near-frontline city like Irkutsk.
We drove fifteen minutes.
"N-n-ada?" Shnyrka appeared on my shoulder, whispering.
Damn… He held a gold watch, no initials. He'd been good lately, but here we go again.
Shnyrka's a kleptomaniac. He grabs anything loose, and you never know what it'll be.
In my past life, the wildest moment was when he brought me a baby. Took ages to find its parents.
Shnyrka gets sulky if I reject his "gifts," ignoring my calls for a while, "punishing" me. No choice.
"Nice one! Thanks!" I scratched his ear while the driver wasn't looking.
Now I'm holding stolen goods. What do I do? Robbing the driver's out of the question.
Wait—why'd I put them on? Hilarious if they're the driver's and he saw me try them. Probably not his… But it's a fun mess…
"Sir, found something…" I leaned down, pretending to pick it up, and handed him the watch.
"Oh! Thank you!" The driver blushed, eyes darting. Maybe not his, but he's quick. "How'd I drop these?"
"No problem. Be careful. And wait for me."
A small, fortified building, like all in Irkutsk, with a sign: "Archip's Legendary Weapons." Grandiose old man!
I entered. A bell jingled lazily, announcing me. Cute, considering the dozen cameras tracking visitors from every angle. I passed through a metal frame, likely a scanner that probably told the owner what I ate for breakfast. Paranoid guy!
The owner sat behind the counter, polishing a long, narrow dagger with a soft cloth, peering through round, thin-framed glasses. Those glasses were his only "merchant" trait.
The man himself… I couldn't call him old! Sure, aged, but built like a giant. Two meters tall, broad shoulders, his shirt ready to burst from massive muscles. A mythical Russian hero, like the ones my mom read about!
"Greetings, my lord…" he squinted, "5th-Class Slayer!"
Those glasses were fake, softening his fearsome look to seem more like a simple merchant.
"And to you, sir…" I paused, waiting.
"Sir? Hardly!" he laughed deeply. "Call me Archip. I own this humble shop."
Humble, sure. I scanned the wares: a Ballian steel sword, a fire rosewood spear… I'm not versed in local prices, but these were rare.
"New in town?" Archip kept up his friendly act, though it felt forced. He genuinely tried to be likable, but something wild and untamed radiated from him.
"How'd you guess?" I didn't deny.
"5th-Class Slayer," he explained readily. "Never seen you. Earning that rank here takes at least a year, unless you're extraordinary—no offense. We'd have crossed paths. My job's like that. And I've got a sharp memory for faces."
"Baron Alexander Galaktionov," I introduced myself, though I'd planned to buy and bolt.
His quick glance at my hand confirmed no Lineage ring, then he met my eyes "honestly."
"What can I do for you, Lord Galaktionov?"
"A sword. Straight. Bastard sword'll do."
"Budget?" he asked promptly.
"Minimal," I said, unfazed.
"Hmm…" Archip took it in stride, placing two swords on the counter.
"Four thousand and five thousand," he stated plainly, no sales pitch. A 5th-Class Slayer should know weapons.
I didn't touch them. Cheap steel, cheap weapons, absurdly overpriced.
"Quality's fine," I said slowly, and it was—for my needs, sufficient. "But the price…"
I locked eyes with him. He didn't flinch, and we stared, sizing each other up.
"There's one option…" he began cautiously. "But I can't guarantee it, for certain reasons. No receipt either."
Now we're talking.
"I'm interested," I nodded.
"One moment," he stepped into the back, leaving me under twenty-four… no, twenty-six cameras!
He returned swiftly, placing a twin of the "4,000" sword on the counter.
"Two thousand!" he announced. "Sheath included!"
"Loyal customer discount?" I smiled.
"When you're a regular!" he grinned back.
I inspected this sword for hidden flaws. Clearly used but looked new. Best not ask its origins.
"Sold!" I agreed, no haggling. Something told me befriending this old owner would pay off later.
I counted out the still-hefty sum from my wallet and handed it over, pausing as he reached for it.
"Say, Archip, could you buy… ahem… certain interesting items at interesting prices?"
"Not just possible—necessary!" he smiled, and I released the cash, which vanished under the counter. "That'll hasten your discount and 'honored buyer' status."
"Deal!" I extended my hand, swallowed by his massive paw.
I took my purchase, and we parted, pleased. The bait's set and bitten—such deals take time.
The taxi drove me to my chosen hotel. After paying, with a small tip, I checked into a simple but clean room and headed straight for a shower.
"N-n-ada?" Shnyrka appeared on my shoulder, the taxi driver's gold watch in his teeth. Damn it…