Zhalgaztur stood motionless, watching closely as the initially panicking youth gradually mastered the emotions flooding over him. The young man's breathing slowly evened out, convulsive gasps giving way to more measured inhalations and exhalations. Finally, he pulled himself together and calmed as much as was possible in his current state.

  The old baksy slowly closed his eyes, focusing on inner vision. Calling upon the rukhs—those spiritual entities who stood above ordinary spirits yet below the great Aruaks—he addressed them with a request. His mental voice was respectful yet firm. Zhalgaztur asked them to cleanse the youth of negative effects.

  The rukhs responded. Ayan didn't even fully grasp what had occurred in that instant before the entire cycle—with flashes of bright, nearly blinding light, deafening noise and sharp, acrid smell—repeated from the very beginning, as though time itself had turned back.

  This was when the lad truly became frightened—deeply, desperately, to his very core. The endless, as it seemed in his ravaged consciousness, cycle of events methodically wore him down, like millstones grinding grain.

  The pain only intensified, building with each new round of torment, growing ever more unbearable, ever more unendurable. Ayan no longer felt embarrassed to scream at the top of his lungs, howling desperately from pain and fear, though he couldn't hear his own voice through the deafening noise that alternated with absolute silence.

  Yet moving Zhalgaztur, who in his long two hundred and forty-five years of eventful life had witnessed truly everything, proved impossible with such a spectacle. The old baksy stood motionless as a stone statue, observing what transpired with detached calm.

  It seemed the heartrending screams of his victim only spurred him on, driving him to continue what he'd begun with even greater persistence. Though in his defence, it should be noted that the Aruaks themselves had firmly assured him this youth would undoubtedly endure the trial.

  True, about that small but important fact that the unfortunate lad simply had no other way out of his predicament—unless he wished to remain trapped in this spirit cave forever—the mighty primordial spirits had prudently remained silent.

  The baksy stopped only when Ayan had no strength left to scream—from his ravaged, inflamed throat came only a weak, pitiful wheeze, like the death rattle of the dying.

  The lad took a long time to recover, continuing to lie helplessly on the cold earth, whimpering like a wounded beast. From all-consuming, searing pain, from the glaring injustice of what had happened, from boundless self-pity and from deep, almost primal hatred towards his merciless tormentor, who watched his suffering with an impenetrable, impassive face.

  "Look only at the result, don't pity yourself needlessly, for no one else will do it—remember that once and for all. Beyond this cosy cave awaits a world overflowing with cruelty and pain, a world that knows no mercy and gives no respite. So gather your will into a tight fist and walk firmly, without turning aside, along the path you choose for yourself with your own mind and heart."

  Understanding the young lad's thoughts and feelings, reading them like an open book, Zhalgaztur, without changing his face's imperturbable expression, tried to somehow encourage and prepare him for coming trials. As best he could, insofar as his centuries of experience and harsh life principles, forged by time and circumstance, allowed.

  And the results of their joint, exhausting training sessions truly astounded with their obviousness and tangibility. Now the lad didn't even wince or squint at the bright, eye-searing light of the torch when he slowly, with difficulty, overcoming pain in aching muscles, rose to his feet. The baksy had managed to install and securely fasten it to one of the uneven stone walls whilst his student recovered strength and breath after the agonising ordeal.

  "Piss off with your high-flown advice and moralising. It's grim, bleak and unbearable enough without you!" Crudely snapping back through clenched teeth, still feeling dull, aching pain in every cell of his exhausted body, Ayan slowly, cautiously hobbled towards his familiar, habitual place by the opposite wall.

  "Correct, anger and rage help overcome the harshest difficulties and obstacles, temper spirit and will, but don't overdo it, don't let it completely master your mind—my patience, however strong, isn't limitless!"

  With these words, leaving the lad in relative peace alone with his dark thoughts and experiences, Zhalgaztur walked measuredly, unhurriedly along the rough stone wall where diligent Ainur and Yernazar had carefully, with forethought, stacked impressive supplies of provisions.

  The baksy had brought here an entire cartload of various, long-storing food straight from the aul, knowing beforehand and foreseeing that the lad would spend truly considerable time in this secluded cave, mastering his new body and heritages.

  "You still haven't opened your sandyk? Why?" The massive orc slowly turned his entire torso and stared intently, searchingly with his penetrating eyes at the seated youth, awaiting an answer.

  "What business is it of yours?" Ayan began sharply, but seeing in time the gathering, thickening shadow of serious anger and displeasure on the stern, wrinkle-carved face of the mighty baksy, the lad prudently decided to hastily tone down his belligerent stance and moderate his fervour. "I don't need anything from it! Everything I need, I'll obtain exclusively by my own strength, my own labour and abilities. Is that clear enough?"

  "Not good!"

  "What?"

  "I'm saying: it's not good to reject the Great Heaven's gifts! Who do you think you are, to place your worthless life on equal footing with it?! You must humbly and gratefully accept the gifts and strive to repay it with your actions."

  Zhalgaztur had truly worked himself up, and by the end was looming over Ayan. The latter was confused—he didn't know how to explain to the crazed orc that his sky was merely an artificial intelligence. It even had a name—Ilira. Only, he reckoned that for fanatics, which the baksy appeared to be, such talk was like a red rag to a bull.

  "How should I know whether I can repay your Heaven?!" The lad found his answer.

  "It's not mine, it exists for all. Nothing will be sent to you that's beyond your mind and soul's ability. Remember that! Now stand up and stop snivelling. By my next visit, you must settle in here and study your sandyk's contents! Do you understand me?"

  Ayan kept silent, stubbornly turning towards the wall. The silence dragged on, filling the cave with the weight of the unspoken.

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  "I asked if you understand me?" Zhalgaztur's voice sounded quieter, but thereby only more dangerous—like a beast's growl before the pounce.

  "Understood," the lad muttered through his teeth, not turning his head.

  "Look me in the eyes when you answer."

  Ayan slowly turned round. Met the baksy's piercing blue eyes. In them danced reflections of torchlight, transforming the gaze into something primordial, ancient.

  "Understood," he repeated more firmly, withstanding the pressure.

  Zhalgaztur continued looking at him for another dozen heartbeats, as though weighing the answer's sincerity. Then slowly nodded.

  "Good. I'll come in eight hours. Meanwhile, keep moving forward—study your sphere of perception, grow accustomed to new sensations."

  "What about the sandyk?" Ayan couldn't resist the sarcasm.

  "You'll open the sandyk when you stop fearing what you'll find inside," the baksy parried calmly, turning towards the exit. "It's not the Heaven's gifts that frighten you, lad. You're afraid to accept yourself."

  Those words struck more accurately than any fist. Ayan clenched his jaw, feeling a wave of protest rise inside, mixed with shame.

  Zhalgaztur picked up his staff leaning against the wall and unhurriedly moved towards the opening leading upwards. His massive figure cast bizarre shadows on the uneven stone walls, dancing in the single torch's light.

  "Study today's training results," he tossed over his shoulder, already disappearing into the passage's darkness. "And stop pitying yourself. That's worse than any disease."

  The baksy's footsteps gradually faded, ascending. Ayan remained alone in the enormous hall, surrounded by silence and flickering light.

  The chest stood where they'd left it—by the opposite wall, like a silent reproach to his cowardice.

  Ayan simply wouldn't have had the strength to move the chest—even without the preceding training. Besides, he didn't want to approach it. The farther that damned box from sight, the better.

  Instead, he decided to focus on settling the cave alcove. Started simply: drag the mattresses and table from the upper hall where he'd woken at the very beginning down here—to the main one. At least create some semblance of inhabited space.

  On the way up, already halfway to the first hall, he finally opened the event log. System lines appeared before his eyes, backlit from within by the interface's gentle glow.

  Several entries. Mostly—characteristic increases.

  Fortitude had risen two points. Stamina—also two. Spirit—likewise. And—what surprised him most—Luck had increased one point.

  Ayan smiled humourlessly, closing the window with a wave of his hand.

  "Luck... Right. Reckon I was lucky to survive that," he muttered under his breath, climbing the steps.

  A miracle. That's exactly how it felt—a miracle.

  Besides this, there was a message about the Fury parameter increasing by four points. Now his maximum reserve of this indicator equalled thirty-one. And the scale itself had filled to the brim.

  Ayan understood this had happened because of what he'd endured. What to do with it, he didn't know, so for now decided not to burden his already overloaded head with it.

  Moving things proved not so difficult. Mattresses were light, the table—bulky but manageable. Main thing—don't rush. Half an hour later, everything necessary already stood in the main hall, by the wall opposite the entrance to the side corridor.

  Ayan exhaled, wiping his palms on his trousers, and set about the next stage—sorting provisions. Arranged sacks of grain, dried meat, bundles of dried herbs. Everything neat, by shelves—as he liked.

  At least some order. At least some sense of control.

  The system didn't overlook his efforts, rewarding them with two units of Strength and one of Stamina.

  Considering the next characteristic improvement a decent hint to continue in the same vein, the lad decided not to postpone further activities. Sitting on a mattress thrown on the floor so he could eat at the low table, he hurriedly snacked on dried meat—chewing quickly, thinking of nothing and hurrying to begin sooner—then drained the still cool water from the clay jug, feeling how it pleasantly cooled his throat. Setting the dishes aside and wiping his lips with the back of his hand, Ayan stood, stretched, loosening stiff shoulders, and resolutely headed towards his improvised weapon.

  Taking the now-familiar stick in his hands, he gripped it tightly with his fingers, checking the hold, and set about the training he'd grown fond of.

  The stick was unprepossessing—simple, even crude. Not a spear shaft, not a master's staff. Just a branch, stripped of bark, with irregularities beneath the palms. But Ayan didn't care. He needed something into which to channel accumulated anger.

  He began simply: basic thrusts the instructor had shown. Step forward—thrust. Step back—withdrawal. Forward again. Back again. Movements slow, clumsy. The body hadn't yet adjusted to new proportions, to the weight of orcish muscles and bones.

  The first ten minutes, his arms trembled from tension. Fingers gripped the stick so tightly the knuckles whitened. Ayan forced himself to breathe evenly, though his heart pounded rapidly. Every movement felt awkward, wrong.

  "Don't think about how you look," he muttered under his breath, repeating Rotis's words. "Think about how you move."

  Step. Thrust. Withdrawal. Step. Thrust. Withdrawal.

  Gradually the rhythm grew more confident. Breathing evened out. Arms stopped trembling. Movements refined themselves, as though the body memorised every detail without the mind's participation.

  The sphere of perception—the invisible twenty-metre sphere around him—gradually came alive. Ayan began to feel it. First vaguely, as through fog's veil. Then more distinctly. Walls' contours, floor irregularities, even slight air movement from the underground source in the neighbouring hall.

  He stopped, breathing heavily, and half-closed his eyes. Tried concentrating precisely on this—on the sensation of surrounding space. Zhalgaztur had ordered him to study the sphere. Therefore, worth trying.

  Slowly, cautiously, Ayan attempted to expand perception. Reach further. Beyond the habitual twenty metres. The sphere jerked as if alive but didn't yield. Like a glass wall—transparent yet impenetrable.

  "Through characteristics," he muttered, recalling the interface's explanations. "Through Perception and Concentration." Additional pop-up hint text stated that the perception sphere's radius grew as these characteristics increased.

  One hundredth per point—or put simply, one centimetre—so the lad's sphere radius didn't equal twenty metres but measured two hundred and sixteen centimetres.

  Ayan opened his eyes and took up the stick again. Continued training. Step, thrust, withdrawal. Again and again. Slower than he'd like. Clumsier than imagined.

  An hour later, muscles blazed. His back ached from constant tension. Legs hummed. But he didn't stop. Simply slowed down. Shifted to more measured movements—not attacks but stretches. Warm-down. Breath recovery.

  When strength finally left him, Ayan squatted, back against the cold stone wall. The stick lay nearby. Sweat ran down his temples. Breathing faltered despite all attempts to even it out.

  His gaze drifted of its own accord towards the event log.

  "Attention! Congratulations! Your skill: 'One-handed Polearm Proficiency' has increased by 1 unit. Current value: 1."

  "Attention! Congratulations! Your characteristic Stamina has increased by 1 unit. Current value: 11."

  "Attention! Congratulations! Your characteristic Agility has increased by 1 unit. Current value: 8."

  "Attention! Congratulations! Your skill: 'Athletics' has increased by 1 unit. Current value: 1."

  "Attention! Congratulations! Your skill: 'One-handed Polearm Proficiency' has increased by 1 unit. Current value: 2."

  "Attention! Congratulations! Your characteristic Strength has increased by 1 unit. Current value: 10."

  "Attention! Congratulations! Your characteristic Agility has increased by 1 unit. Current value: 9."

  "Attention! Congratulations! Your skill: 'Athletics' has increased by 1 unit. Current value: 2."

  "Attention! Congratulations! Your skill: 'One-handed Polearm Proficiency' has increased by 1 unit. Current value: 3."

  Delighted by the progress, the lad lost himself for a moment and his gaze fell upon the chest.

  It stood where they'd left it. Silent. Motionless. As though awaiting its hour.

  "It's not the Heaven's gifts that frighten you," Zhalgaztur's words echoed. "You're afraid to accept yourself."

  Ayan clenched his jaw. Looked away. Stared at the cave ceiling, lost in darkness.

  "Not now. I've still got things to do..."