Prologue

  23 Years Before the End of Times

  Snow-white, as if shrouded in eternal slumber, the Alps rose silently above the earth. Their snow-capped peaks were covered by dark green coniferous forests, resembling a rough blanket beneath which an ancient giant sleeps. And yet it seemed the mountains gazed down from above, watching, guarding ancient secrets. How much they could tell the world, how many stories they could share... But, fortunately for today's disturbers of their primordial peace, the mountains remained silent.

  The Falren family estate, brightly illuminated by hundreds of lights—unusually noisy and bustling at this hour—sprawled at the foot of these mountains. Today it resembled a living creature: throwing open its doors, it stood ready to receive into its vast depths anyone who honoured the master with a visit. Servants greeted the guests—there were so many of them that it seemed as if the very walls of the castle had transformed into black shadows, gliding behind each arrival. They appeared and disappeared soundlessly, fulfilling the slightest whims. And whims, as everyone knows, come in all varieties—from the banal thirst for wine to the desire to conceal a secret conversation. And the more possibilities a person has, the more needs they acquire.

  Yet beneath all the splendour of the reception lurked a different atmosphere—a dense fog of intrigue enveloped everything. Whispers never ceased for a minute. In every niche, in every darkened corner, guests leaned towards one another, casting cautious glances, as if seeking confirmation of surging suspicions. And the question on nearly everyone's lips was one and the same. It hung over the estate like a shadow: was this a celebration or mourning? Had they come to a feast or a farewell to life?

  It was hardly surprising that among those who, through happenstance or unconventional minds, had managed to climb to the very heights of power and wealth, such 'dubious' celebrations were not uncommon. Many of the guests themselves hosted similar events at their estates, mixing balls with secret councils, festivities with rituals, and merriment with grim dealings. And yet, even for the jaded, tonight's evening remained a mystery. An outcome.

  Somewhere in the luxurious hall, music played, glasses filled with sparkling wine, women in gowns studded with precious stones from head to toe laughed with deliberate brightness, whilst men in formal tailcoats discussed the immediate future of all humanity. But everyone's attention, ultimately, was riveted not to the ball but to the 'Verdict'. If any of the guests had been allowed to peek behind the closed door of the master's study, they would undoubtedly have agreed—even at the cost of their own reputation.

  Fortunately for Saviel—for that was the name of the head of the Falren family—the Master tolerated no presence of outsiders. The patriarch sat in his favourite armchair. He was surrounded by opulent furnishings—oak panels on the walls, portraits of ancestors, an antique globe, and a massive writing desk. But all of this seemed unnecessary: the master himself was consumed by anticipation. He did not wish for anyone to witness his weakness, that trembling flutter that gripped his soul in these moments.

  Before him stood the Master. His face remained impassive, his hands sinewy, strong, precise, and confident. The needle of the syringe slowly approached the vein at Saviel's elbow. How many times had he already endured this procedure? And each time fear, each time doubt: what if it doesn't work this time? Was it possible he had become useless to the Principal Entities? Perhaps he had become a useless pawn, decided to be removed from the board?

  No, this time too everything went well for him. As always. Soon after the needle pierced his skin, heat flooded the study's master's body. A wave of unbearable heat swept rapidly through him, engulfing every cell. The heat surged upwards, flooded his mind, and culminated in incredible bliss. This feeling of possessing what was inaccessible to others, material proof of superiority over the rest, the sweet sensation of power to which Saviel had grown so accustomed, had long ago become like a drug to him. Rare, difficult to obtain, but so desirable and the only thing bringing true joy.

  "I shall be pleased to welcome you for another century," the Master said dryly, withdrawing the syringe and packing away his instruments. His words sounded almost ritualistic, like a formula known only to the initiated. He expected no response. Taking his bag, he left the study as soundlessly as he had entered, closing the door behind him. Below, a helicopter awaited him—and the Master, not lingering for a minute, vanished into the night.

  Only after his departure did the door open again. Emera Falren, the master's daughter, entered. She walked softly, but her eyes gleamed with impatience.

  "Father, how are you feeling?" she asked, only after ensuring that Saviel had recovered.

  "My dear, everything is excellent," he smiled, though remnants of recent tension still trembled in his voice. "Our plan has worked."

  The idea of breaching an information portal to the world of the Principal Entities had belonged to Emera. She had not only proposed it but helped bring it to fruition, for which Saviel was sincerely grateful. After all, it's not every day a person receives an additional hundred years added to their allotted life.

  "I'm delighted," Emera's eyes flashed. "Does this mean we can proceed to the next stage? To Project Ilira?"

  Impatience, even greed, sounded in her voice. But who could condemn her? The reward for the second stage, if it succeeded, would belong to her...

  ***

  358 Years After the End of Times

  Not a single ray of light could find a breach in the celestial canopy. Black storm clouds left the light not a single chance. And how could it be otherwise, when the Gods were angry?

  "Do you truly believe you have a chance? A chance at victory? Over us?"

  After these words, twelve enormous lightning bolts crashed down from the heavens. The celestials had decided to descend to the sinful earth.

  Emerging from streams of energy, they formed a semicircle. From their combined aura rose a gust of wind. Even the elements tried to avoid encountering such beings.

  In its hasty flight, it met yet another creature. But the orc—and this was, without doubt, precisely an orc—did not frighten the Wind. It rushed at him fearlessly, throwing back the folds of his cloak and making them flutter.

  "You all see! I still live! And that means my chances... are infinite!"

  The orc finally managed the clasp holding his cloak. From the corner of his eye, he saw gusts of wind catch his old companion. The cloak flew a considerable distance, despite its enormous weight.

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  As soon as the orc's neck was freed from the strangling strap, the liberated force raised a counter-current of air. His own aura gladly began to compete with the combined might of all the Gods...

  Chapter 1

  316 Years After the End of Times

  "So, stump, they say you're being released into the big world today?" Doran Tariel, who had crouched before the wheelchair so that the boy sitting in it could see him clearly, smiled mockingly.

  "Watch out, worm, no one out there will coddle you like we do!" Braying at his own stupid joke, Doran had to grab the wheelchair's armrest. Otherwise he risked ending up on the ground, he found it so funny.

  The laughter was supported not only by his hangers-on. Perhaps everyone in the courtyard was laughing. Children—for eighteen-year-old louts should indeed be identified by this word—had never possessed a sense of tact.

  "You know what worms like you are good for?" Doran paused, as if about to deliver eternal truth, like the ancient Greek philosophers.

  "You can put them on a hook." Another explosion of laughter followed.

  The only exception was the owner of the wheelchair. Should anyone have expected a different reaction from him? Instead of laughing, he rolled his eyes at the stupidity of this joke. In the eighteen years he'd spent in virtuality, he'd heard far funnier jokes. He could even laugh at some of them himself, given time.

  Now, however, he easily distinguished the nuances in his classmates' laughter. He understood that some did it under duress, fearing that otherwise Doran's attention would switch to them. Others, conversely, tried to make their laughter sound louder than the rest, hoping this would please their school's unofficial leader. And some genuinely found it funny. Those he sincerely pitied.

  "Thanks for your concern. I'll try to live up to your trust. Though, I confess, I'm not sure I can joke as sharply as you..."

  With these words, the sitting boy put on the most innocent expression, looking straight into Doran's smirking face. The latter narrowed his eyes slightly, irritation flickering in his gaze. It was mixed with suspicion that his victim had allowed herself too much.

  "Getting cheeky, stump?" The sound barely escaped through clenched teeth. Words weren't enough for the bully, and he roughly grabbed the boy by the shoulder. His grip was strong, painful. The invalid's face contorted as if from eating a lemon.

  Doran leaned so close that his breath tangibly touched his companion's cheek. As if he were about to kiss him.

  "Remember this, Ayan. You're nobody! Not in this life, not in virtuality! Born a worm, you're not meant to fly... Carve that into your brain! It'll make dealing with future disappointments easier."

  His words sliced through the boy's consciousness. But he forced himself not to look away. Everything boiled inside him, but outwardly he remained calm. Ayan understood that this was exactly what Doran was waiting for. To see him break, succumb to his taunts, react to them.

  "Silence!" The teacher's sharp rebuke cut through the digital air.

  This made Doran reluctantly look away and straighten up. He turned his back to the wheelchair as if nothing had happened and, with exaggerated slowness, returned to his designated spot on the green lawn. Sitting down, he feigned concentration, pretending to listen attentively to the lesson.

  Ayan caught himself thinking he should thank the teacher for intervening. And he would have, if the teacher had made the remark at the very moment when Doran had first risen. But that hadn't happened. And, to be honest, it never happened. So the teacher wouldn't hear his gratitude either.

  Over the years, Ayan had begun to suspect that the teachers deliberately allowed people like Doran to approach him and deliver their offensive remarks. Or do something worse, and only then intervened. Precisely at the moment when the situation reached its edge. No punishment ever followed for them, not once.

  Sometimes a tormenting thought visited him. What if there was logic in all this, however twisted? Why should they protect him? A sub-human capable of existing only in virtual reality. And for real people, all this was merely harmless fun, entertainment, an easy way to pass a boring school day.

  For all of them, it was just a game. For him, however, each such prank left another scratch inside. An unhealing scar on his heart that no one could see.

  And yet, behind each such notch remained something greater. Equally inaccessible to outside eyes. Each humiliation bred within the boy not weakness, but the opposite. A quiet, viscous stubbornness. As if somewhere deep in his chest, energy was accumulating. He himself didn't suspect it, his own strength.

  Ayan told himself, "Let them consider me a worm, but I believe that people like me will one day learn to crawl so long and so persistently that we'll reach heights none of them have even dreamed of."

  "Stop, Ayan." He cut off the stream of thoughts. After all, he shouldn't even dream of such things. How many disappointments and grievances had he experienced in life? The boy tried to suppress his runaway imagination.

  Indeed, the more Ayan tried to stand out, the more he received in return. Humiliations, pain, mockery. All thirteen years that he remembered clearly, he had already endured more from people than anyone should have to bear.

  Not without reason, he believed that by graduation he had developed thick skin. But however hardened he was by barbs, Doran's words had knocked him off balance.

  The boy couldn't understand what was happening with Doran. It would seem that in the final year of study, many classmates had already outgrown this game. Mockery had ceased to be entertainment for them. Sometimes in their eyes Ayan noticed pity for himself. This irritated him no less than direct bullying. Pity from them sounded like lies in his head, concealing their revulsion towards him.

  Doran was different. He didn't just bully. He seemed to savour every moment of Ayan's humiliation. His eyes worked like an instrument: they measured the reaction of those around him and his victim. Fed on it.

  None of those who witnessed this bullying stood in the place of the humiliated. No one wanted to break the familiar order. Some stopped participating in it all. They became uncomfortable, ashamed. But defend the boy? No one wanted that. Being on his side meant taking a step aside that would place them in the same category as the victim.

  Ayan understood this soberly. This understanding didn't warm him. It simply added weight. Each time Doran humiliated him, he read in response a chain of small choices made by his classmates. The choice to look away, the choice not to hear, the choice to laugh along. All of this he had learnt to feel with his skin.

  The day's quota of humiliations had been exhausted, and until the end of the last school day, the boy gazed at the rare clouds floating across the bottomless blue sky. How he longed to break free from the shackles of his feeble body and soar amongst them! They moved slowly, as if taunting him with complete freedom. He tried to calm himself, but his thoughts stubbornly returned to one thing: "My future remained hazy and frighteningly unknown."

  When classes on the sports field ended—and they were the last—the headmistress came for him. He heard nothing new; she simply repeated, "When you're disconnected from the neurolink, you'll immediately be transported to a specially prepared NovaTech flat. There they'll perform the procedure of connecting you to the virtual world capsule."

  He wouldn't need to go to a medical facility for the installation of nutri-port and ex-port, as all his classmates would.

  All three ports had been installed in Ayan almost from birth—otherwise, how could he have existed? In infancy, he and his parents had developed a previously unknown genetic disease. His parents hadn't survived, nor had almost thirty thousand other people. All of them had been diagnosed with the same genetic pathology.

  The boy remained the only survivor amongst those in whom this disease had manifested before a vaccine was created. Truly, not a day passed since when he didn't lament, "I wish I had died then."

  But advanced medicine had preserved him. True, he lacked everything... He was blind, deaf, numb, felt nothing. All his limbs had been amputated. And although today it's no trouble to grow new body parts or organs for a person, his genetic malfunction wouldn't allow them to take. That's how he understood all those speeches the doctors repeated to him.

  Ayan considered himself so far removed from those called human that he couldn't discern truly human values within himself.

  In his defence, it should be noted that even in the virtual school where he had lived all these years, he appeared as a cripple. Ayan could see, hear, and speak, could turn his head, but that was all. Oh yes, he could also feel—feel pain... That was something he would gladly have refused, but everything has its price. And such was his price for the opportunity to feel at least partly human. So he believed.

  After bidding farewell to the student, the headmistress didn't even trouble herself with transporting him to the virtual school exit. Instead, she simply severed his connection right there, on the sports field lawn.

  Darkness enveloped the boy...