Ayan didn't remember exhaling. Didn't remember unclenching his teeth, which had bitten into his lower lip till it bled. He only remembered—he flung open his eyes and the first thing he saw: three faces frozen centimetres from him.

  Orgatai loomed on the right, a heavy palm settling on his shoulder. Yernazar crouched on the left, pressing glowing hands to him. Ainur froze directly before him, amber eyes wide, within them—fear mixed with greedy, sharp expectation.

  "Did you find it?" The girl's voice sounded too loud after the silence into which Ayan had fallen. He flinched.

  The lad tried to swallow, but his throat had dried. He nodded. Slowly. Heavily.

  "Yes," he forced out hoarsely. "I hear them."

  The healer exhaled sharply, as though he'd been struck in the chest. The girl recoiled, covering her mouth with her palm. Orgatai squeezed his fingers on the lad's shoulder more tightly—not painfully, but noticeably, like an anchor keeping him in reality.

  "Where?" The old man asked curtly, without unnecessary words.

  Ayan raised a trembling hand and jabbed a finger at the wall—there, where Rayan had disappeared the day before. The stone looked ordinary. Grey. Unremarkable. The same as all the rest of the surrounding rock.

  "Here," he whispered. "Right here. They're... they're there. Behind this wall."

  Yernazar leapt up first, darted to the indicated spot and pressed his ear to the stone. Froze. Listened. One second. Two. Ten. Then slowly shook his head.

  "I hear nothing."

  Ainur approached next, repeated his actions. Also listened. Also nothing.

  "Neither do I."

  Orgatai didn't move. Continued looking at Ayan with a heavy, piercing gaze. Then slowly unclenched his fingers on his shoulder and nodded.

  "So only you," he stated simply. "The Sky grants you to hear what's inaccessible to others."

  The lad didn't answer. Simply sat, still feeling the echo of those voices vibrating inside his skull, refusing to release him.

  The old man rose, approached the wall and laid his palm on the stone. Stood like that. Then turned back.

  "We can't break through," he said confidently. "Dark magic still holds. If the stone could be breached physically—our ancestors would have done it immediately."

  "Rayan somehow managed; perhaps we should wait for his resurrection before trying anything...?"

  "We've no other choice anyway. Whilst we wait, drill your group coordination." Finishing the phrase, Orgatai retrieved a potion from his ring and drank it to the dregs.

  His appearance transformed instantly—it seemed the very years retreated before the potion's power. Stooped shoulders straightened with the dull crunch of joints, bent back straightened like a drawn bowstring, and in the formerly weary gaze flared a predatory, almost bestial gleam. Wrinkles on his face didn't disappear, grey in hair and moustache remained unchanged, but all this now only emphasised the danger emanating from the old warrior. This was no longer a broken old man with a staff—this was a battle master in the prime of physical strength.

  Following the emptied vial, two training axes materialised in his massive palms—their blades were blunted, but weight and balance remained combat-ready. And before the youngsters could blink, Orgatai launched himself at them in a swift charge that made the cave floor tremble beneath his heavy steps.

  The only one who managed to react to the sudden start of training was Ayan. Instinct took over—his thoughts darted to the storage ring, snatching from it a shield and akinak almost simultaneously. Metal barely touched his palms when the lad was already raising his defence, meeting the instructor's first blow with the crash of colliding surfaces.

  Having engaged the old warrior in a short, furious exchange of blows, he gave Ainur and Yernazar precious seconds to prepare. True, the lad emerged from this clinch far from victorious—he limped on his left leg, where beneath the skin a massive bruise already bloomed dark from a blow by the axe handle, and his right arm hung limp along his body, still not having recovered after blocking a blow that had nearly wrenched his elbow joint.

  "What use is knowing the trajectory of his strikes if I simply can't keep up with the speed of his movements?" For the umpteenth time the lad thought bitterly, retreating backwards and trying to restore his breathing, confronting the unbridgeable chasm between knowledge and the ability to apply that knowledge in real battle against an old, experienced warrior.

  Yernazar, who'd been observing the swift skirmish from the side all this time, not losing a second dashed to his comrade. Standing behind Ayan and placing both palms on his shoulders, the young baksy summoned Ether—his hands were enveloped in a soft greenish glow that immediately flowed into the wounded man's body, healing and restoring damaged muscles and ligaments.

  Feeling the pain recede and strength return to numbed limbs, Ayan nodded gratefully to the healer and once more resolutely hurled himself at the old man, trying to join Ainur's swift, furious attack—she'd already snatched out her weapon and was now pressing her grandfather, attempting to break through his iron defence.

  But alas, nothing worthwhile came of their joint attempt—Orgatai, as though playing, unleashed on both a barrage of swift strikes that they barely managed to block and parry. And then, taking advantage of a single moment's confusion from the students, the old warrior with powerful sweeping blows simply scattered them to opposite sides of the cave like rag dolls. And not giving their group even a chance to continue the fight, Orgatai wheeled with his entire massive body and set upon Yernazar, who was desperately trying to reach Ayan.

  The lad tried to raise his shield before him in a pitiful attempt at defence, but the heavy axe didn't even notice this flimsy obstacle. It swept aside the youth's defence with ease and with a dull, meaty sound bit into his broad chest, incidentally mercilessly breaking two ribs with a characteristic crunch.

  The ginger-haired orc collapsed onto his back with a pained groan, pressing his hands to his chest and breathing heavily, raggedly.

  "Three minutes to recover!" Orgatai announced commandingly, stepping back several paces and lowering his axes.

  The instructor didn't waste a single moment of the two-hour positive effect gained from the potion. As though wishing to squeeze absolutely everything to the last drop from this precious temporal window, the old warrior mercilessly drove his exhausted students again and again, giving them no respite longer than a few brief minutes. He forced them to attack, defend, dodge, parry his merciless strikes—again and again, until their bodies stopped obeying and their hands began trembling from unbearable strain.

  When they'd finally finished, all the youngsters lay sprawled across the cave's cold stone floor, unable to find strength even to get on all fours, let alone rise to their full height. Their bodies literally burnt with pain, muscles refused to obey, and breathing came in ragged, broken gasps.

  Orgatai himself felt incredible weariness and deep, all-consuming weakness spreading through his veins. Such intensive, unnatural acceleration of his own organism never passed without trace. His old body, worn by time and injuries, demanded its due, insistently reminding him of the price that had to be paid for each minute of temporary might.

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  Supper proved surprisingly modest and simple—none of those present found in themselves either the physical or mental strength to set about preparing a proper hot meal.

  Ordering his exhausted but obedient students to set up wooden targets at some distance and begin drilling archery technique, the instructor, entirely unembarrassed and paying no attention to the indignant, silently reproachful glances cast his way, lowered himself heavily onto spread blankets and almost instantly sank into deep, healing sleep. His massive body demanded rest after such exhausting training and artificial acceleration of his organism.

  The young orcs had absolutely nothing left but to obediently follow the received order, despite their own weariness and desire to sit down, if only briefly.

  Waking approximately three hours later, the experienced orc needed only to glance at his charges—at their tense postures, sweat-dampened faces, hands trembling from fatigue yet still firmly gripping their bows—to understand unerringly: they'd truly trained conscientiously all this allotted time, not sparing themselves, not allowing themselves to relax even for an instant.

  However, the observant warrior also immediately noticed their mental, inner state had begun fluctuating again, like a candle flame in a draught. Anxiety, worry and fear of the unknown were slowly but steadily seeping into their hearts.

  And Orgatai understood them perfectly, to painful detail—ahead of the young warriors awaited a frightening unknown, mysterious and potentially mortally dangerous, which they'd have to explore and comprehend entirely independently, without his guidance and protection.

  The old orc would have gone with them on this risky journey with enormous joy and without the slightest hesitation, shielding them with his experience and strength, but he understood perfectly well—in that case, all chances of successfully escaping from the potential temporal loop would disappear almost completely and definitively. But this way, if they went alone, perhaps—only perhaps—they'd manage on their own and find the way out.

  But now, in this specific moment, he again decided mercilessly to dispel all anxious, distracting thoughts from their young heads by the only method he knew.

  The youngsters noticed the instructor's awakening and even managed to think they were in for deserved rest. True, all joy fled their faces the moment they saw the old man retrieve a new potion and begin drinking it.

  Ayan reacted first again, and not waiting for attack, began shooting at the old man at all available speed.

  The old man transformed into a swift shadow and in the next instant, his axe severed the lad's kneecap.

  Pain flared in his head with such force that he thought of nothing else.

  Ainur emerged from combat with both arms broken, and Yernazar got off with three bruises. After all, he still had to restore the wounded.

  "Three minutes to recover!" This phrase drowned out Ayan's groans and the girl's weeping. No one intended to give them concessions. And they understood this clearly.

  The healer lowered himself beside Ayan, hands trembling from fatigue. Green radiance flared weaker than usual—mana reserves melted with each new healing.

  "Bear it," he tossed out curtly, pressing his palms to the crippled legs.

  The lad clenched his teeth till they crunched, feeling bones knitting, arranging themselves into the correct form. Each second of the process resonated with a pulsing wave of pain.

  Ainur sat apart, pressing her elbows to her chest and breathing noisily through her nose. Tears had dried on her cheeks in dirty tracks, but new ones didn't flow. Her gaze had stopped, empty, focused on something invisible within.

  "Kyzym," Orgatai called to her quietly.

  The girl jerked as though from a blow and raised her eyes to her grandfather.

  "Rise."

  She obeyed, slowly getting to her feet, bracing herself against the wall. Her arms hung along her body like dead weight.

  The old man approached, stopped before her. The axes vanished into the storage ring. Massive palms settled on her shoulders—not painfully, but firmly.

  "You wept."

  Not a question. A statement of fact.

  "Yes," Ainur exhaled hoarsely.

  "Good."

  She blinked, incomprehension flickering in her eyes.

  "Pain teaches," Orgatai continued calmly. "Fear too. But tears—that's a choice. You can shed them and remain weak. Or accept the lesson and become stronger."

  Fingers squeezed on her shoulders.

  "What do you choose?"

  The girl swallowed the lump in her throat, fresh waves of pain coursing down her arms. She straightened her back as far as her broken arms allowed.

  "Stronger," she whispered. Then louder: "Stronger, ata."

  The old man nodded and released her.

  "Nazar, mend my granddaughter."

  He'd already finished with Ayan and moved to the girl. The lad tried to stand; his leg held. Limping, he approached the targets and picked up the bow that had fallen from his hands during the attack.

  "Two minutes," Orgatai pronounced, looking at all three of them.

  Yernazar finished with Ainur more quickly—the fractures proved clean, without displacement. The girl worked her fingers, clenching and unclenching her fists, checking the mobility of her joints.

  The young baksy lowered himself onto the blankets, closed his eyes and tried to restore at least some of his depleted reserves. He didn't heal his own bruises. Ether responded sluggishly, as though through a thickness of water.

  "Time," the instructor announced exactly after the allotted period.

  This time Ayan and Ainur moved in sync. The lad loosed an arrow, aiming for the chest—the girl lunged sideways, trying to get round the flank.

  Orgatai deflected the shaft of her spear with his axe and stepped towards his granddaughter's attack. She managed to block with her shield, but the blow hurled her back three metres. Landing on her back knocked all air from her lungs.

  The lad was already drawing his bowstring. He shot. Missed—the old man ducked, and the arrow whistled overhead. The next blow caught Ayan in the solar plexus with the handle. He doubled over, trying to breathe.

  Ainur leapt up, ignoring pain in her ribs. She swung. Orgatai parried almost lazily, turned his axe and struck flat against her thigh. Her leg buckled. The girl collapsed to one knee.

  "You're moving separately," the old man tossed out, retreating. "Each on your own. Where's the coordination?"

  Yernazar rose, retrieved his staff. Dashed to his comrades. The glow on his hands flared weaker than before—barely visible.

  "Low on mana," he admitted hoarsely, healing bruises.

  "Then conserve him," the instructor answered harshly. "In a real fight no one will give you a breather to recover."

  The next attack began before they'd managed to prepare. Orgatai descended on the healer first—he barely managed to raise his staff. The axe blow split the shaft in half. The next knocked him off his feet.

  Ayan and Ainur attacked simultaneously, trying to draw attention. Useless. The old man wheeled, blocked his granddaughter's sword with one axe, deflected the lad's sword with the second. He counter-attacked—Ainur flew aside with a broken wrist. Ayan took a blow to the jaw and lost consciousness for several seconds.

  When he came to, Orgatai already stood over all three of them, breathing heavily.

  "Three minutes," he announced hollowly.

  Yernazar didn't move. Lay on his back, gazing at the cave's stone ceiling. His hands barely stirred.

  "I can't," he whispered. "Completely empty."

  The instructor silently retrieved from his ring a small vial with blue liquid and tossed it to the healer.

  "Drink."

  When the potion's effect expired, Ayan, as had his comrades half an hour earlier, fell asleep instantly. Directly on the cold stone, unable even to speak a word.

  Orgatai, having recovered somewhat, moved them all to their sleeping places and covered them warmly. Ayan had made him exert himself fully. No surprise—after all, the old man knew that in characteristics the lad equalled an eightieth-level fighter.

  At first, this pace of characteristic accumulation had seriously frightened him, but at some point their growth had completely stopped. One parameter after another, halting in development upon reaching a certain limit. The lad didn't share what was happening with anyone; possibly Zhalgaztur knew more, but didn't hasten to share it with the old orc.

  However, no strength remained for pondering the lad's oddities. He hadn't felt this shattered and helpless in a long time. But overcoming weakness, he rose.

  "How are you, my dear? Hungry?" He patted Zhuldyz's croup.

  She snorted in reply and turned away from him.

  "Don't turn your nose up; she asked to be taught herself. I know no other way and won't!" He justified himself before the mare.

  "You were there when the baksy revealed her future to me. How can I show weakness?" Whispering in Zhuldyz's ear, he was calming his own nerves. No one could imagine what he had to step over each time, crippling his own granddaughter.

  The only living being remaining to him. After all, he remembered how he'd first taken her in his arms, how she'd first begun crawling, and then to universal joy, walking.

  What a celebration he'd thrown then. For the ceremony of cutting the hobbles, tausau kesu, the entire aul had gathered. And how proud he'd been when Ainur, waddling comically, had reached the end of the white tablecloth and chosen the bow. In those distant days he'd wished with all his heart for her to grow into a true warrior.

  Yes, to this very moment, he cursed himself for it. In that second, joy had clouded his reason, and he'd forgotten the main thing. One should always fear one's wishes.

  "Forgive this old fool..." Pressing his forehead to her head, he looked into the animal's understanding eyes. Ashamed of his sentimentality, Orgatai added, "Otherwise I'll turn you into shuzhyk!"

  Zhuldyz merely snorted contemptuously, not even glancing at the finger he wagged at her.

  Thoughts of boiled sausage made his stomach rumble in displeasure. Retrieving dried meat, he began unhurriedly chewing it, glancing at the sleepers. When sleep overcame his mind, the orc never knew.