Aleks Kotov
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Vol 8, Chapter 13
🕑 Added 2025-09-22 20:06:15 +0000 UTC◆ Several Years Ago, Dungeons beneath the Capital, Memory ◆
"Be so kind, pass me the forceps," the third prince requested, extending a hand behind him. His gaze never once left the figure lying lifeless on the operating table. A helmet, shattered from a monstrous blow, lay kicked beneath the table. A carefully sawed portion of skull rested on a side tray, exposing the patient's damaged brain, with several shards protruding from it.
Randall handed it over, and I noticed that the prince… still just a prince at that time… wasn't even wearing gloves. I wanted to look around, but alas, Randall's attention was fixed on how the prince delicately removed bone fragments from the warrior's brain.
It seemed we were beneath the royal castle; at least, that's what Randall's earlier memories suggested.
"Take the clamps and help implant the core," the Prince ordered, and the student obediently complied.
A few swift slices of the scalpel crudely severed the neural connections, and my body nearly trembled with rapture at the prince's skill. I squeezed my mind shut, trying to block out the sensations that had overtaken Randall at that time, but the past couldn't be altered.
So my eyes bulged, tracking the teacher's every move. The Prince gave an approving nod, and Randall proceeded.
Clamps thrust into the brain spread the gray matter apart so the teacher could calmly insert a lump of slime, within which a small magical core glowed faintly.
I wasn't a neurosurgeon, but common sense told me people didn't usually survive this. Wait… had the patient even been alive?
The knight didn't stir, didn't breathe, though the warmth radiating from the brain hinted he might still be clinging to life. The prince's voice dispelled my doubts.
"Ren. The circle. Time to revive Sir Mirolld before he dies completely."
A pulse closed the circle. A flash of healing light intertwined with the icy chill of necromagic, crashing down on the body and making it convulse violently. The dead man's leg twitched, knocking his own skull fragment off the tray, but Dastan ignored it, his gaze fixed on the exposed brain where, under the spell's influence, the monster's core fused with human nerves.
"Well, since he's revived, we'll need to restrain him now," the Prince remarked belatedly.
My hands moved on their own, pinning the wretch to the table. Straps tightened, biting into flesh.
"I'd like to work on the Beast project. Assist you with it," I suddenly said.
"Sorry, but no," the prince dismissed curtly.
"You think I lack the skill?"
"I think even I lack the skill. Attempting to recreate parasitic magical weapons from the Unification Wars, knowing only roughly how they functioned… that already tests the limits of my abilities. Don't forget, I'm not a scholar; just a captain of swordsmen with some knowledge of alchemy."
"Your knowledge is too extraordinary…" Randall tried to flatter him, but the prince cut him off sharply.
"Flattery won't get you on the project. My word is no."
"You're just afraid, afraid I'll unleash it sooner than you want," the student hissed, like a snake with its tail stepped on.
But such a sudden shift in tone didn't trouble Dastan in the least. He calmly prepared the next tool: saws, chisels, and surgical needles.
"I'll admit the possibility, and I don't want unnecessary risks. Everything must proceed according to plan. First the Academy; we'll wipe out the new generation of mages and conduct large-scale trials at the same time. Then a pause for refinement. After that, we'll deliver it to all the cities of the Commonwealth for maximum impact… and only a couple of years later release it in the Kingdom. No need to rush. Cut off his shirt and prepare to branch the arteries. A second heart won't hurt him…"
For several minutes, the room filled only with the wet sounds of flesh being carved.
"There is one thing you can help with," the Prince finally said, making the student perk up. "You see, this world's ritual knowledge is primitive, but already adapted to it, unlike mine. Help me draw a ritual circle."
"A circle? Of course, absolutely! What for?"
"For the Dome," the Prince replied casually, as if speaking of a trip to the grocer, not the most colossal magical field in history, the one that shielded their world from the swirling void outside.
Randall already knew about the Dome, and about what Dastan planned to do with it.
"Won't the Dome collapse on its own with the mages dead?" he asked.
"Even when the mages die, that will only deprive the barrier of its sustenance. It still has far too much durability left. A hundred years, perhaps. Too long. I will personally offer a great sacrifice in the circle, to widen the tear in reality from two millimeters to… twenty, thirty… as much as possible. After that, the barrier will hold only a year, two at most — still far too long, but at least it's something. Calculate the focal centers and prepare the power lines. Mark the location and approximate scale on the table."
"And Sir Mirolld…?"
"I will stitch him myself. Go over the plan and tell me what you think."
Heavy footsteps approached the table. Bloodied hands unrolled a parchment.
"Are you sure the map's scale is correct, Master?" the apprentice exclaimed in amazement.
"Absolutely."
"It would take tons… no, hundreds… thousands of tons of gold."
"Correct. That's why we won't rush to release the magical plague. Who would gather the gold then? Perhaps even all the gold in the kingdom won't suffice, but by that time we'll be able to mine it from the abandoned lands of the Confederacy."
"If those lands are contaminated…"
"Then we will need those who are not alive," the Prince hinted.
"Necromancers?"
"I would prefer Archan the Black himself, but awakening him would demand far too much power. I will recruit one of the djinn, someone who can inspire hope. He will ravage the Theocracy, gather strength…"
"Master, I don't wish to doubt your design, your plan, but… the Theocracy will not sit idly by if a necromancer attacks them."
"That is no problem at all. They will. Their rigid hierarchy and fanatical devotion to their ruler will be their undoing."
Randall skeptically raised an eyebrow, but the Prince did not expand his thought, simply continued calmly stitching the mutilated knight's body. The apprentice shook his head and lowered his gaze to the map.
It was only a rough sketch, yet even so its scale was staggering — the entire frozen island at the Peak of World was covered with future runic circles.
My vision darkened, and my head split open with pain, hurling me out of the memory and back into the cluttered apartment.
"Ouch." I pressed a hand to my temple. "This time it was… I don't know. Too fragmented."
The soulless shell lay at my feet, still clutching the scalpel in its hands. Seeing emptiness in my own eyes was unpleasant.
"He resisted."
"Hm. Then why did I get only part of the memories? This clearly wasn't the full version."
"Fine, you caught me," the demon admitted. "That was what you needed, and the rest of the soul will go… to work. Now I am full of strength! If you wish, we can leave right now. However…"
I raised an eyebrow inquiringly.
"However, you now have a unique chance… Do you really need to return?"
"Wait. What?"
"I can return your soul to its rightful place. Back into your former body, and our contract will be annulled. You will live your former life again, as much as possible."
"Weren't you the one urging me to hurry and kill Dastan?"
"That is no longer necessary. You saw what I saw — he plans to bring down the Dome. After that, no one in your world will survive… not even that mortal. All I need is to outlast him, and I will already have won."
"And so you're suggesting I just abandon everything?"
"You will survive. You will regain your life and comforts."
"Yeah, right." I said doubtfully, running a hand over the dusty, syringe-littered table. At least three were filled with some filth.
Of course, I was tempted. Strongly tempted… A peaceful life, friends I had never visited. Even the body ruined by drugs could be restored. I could clean up the hovel my home had become. Return to e-sports. Live out my years in modern comfort, without needing to heat a cauldron over a fire just to wash.
Ha. To hell with all of that!
I grabbed three syringes at once and plunged them one after another into my soulless body. Tremors ran through it, foam spilling from its mouth. I silently watched as my possible life died, and only when the heart stopped did I sum it up.
"The champion couldn't cope with his defeat and fell to the very bottom. Death by overdose. I may not be a rock star, but such an end will surprise no one. A sad finale."
"So we're going back?"
"Of course. Too much remains undone there, too many depend on us, we cannot abandon them… But we still have a week, so be ready. We'll squeeze out everything this world can offer us."
The only reply was a disgruntled growl.
***
◆ A Week Later, Cemetery ◆
It was drizzling. Cold, unpleasant, acidic. In just minutes it pressed all the cemetery dust to the ground.
My nose stung slightly, as if pricked by a diluted bite. A sour taste of dampness on my lips. The umbrella had no trouble doing its job; after all, the acid rain still fell within the ever-shifting ecological norms.
I shook it, making the yellowish drops join the rivulets running along the gravestones.
Only in movies do people caught in such rain dissolve, like the witch in The Wizard of Oz. Apart from minor skin irritation, there's nothing too terrible. And even that, only if you don't wash it off in time… Plants, however, weren't so lucky. Even genetically modified flowers couldn't withstand such torrents and withered, and plastic dulled and crumbled even faster than usual.
Needless to say, under such conditions the cemetery looked nothing but utterly bleak.
Men in black suits. A closed velvet coffin. Only a billboard in the distance added a touch of color, showing an ad for synthetic meat.
The coffin was lowered a bit more hastily than was fitting, but I understood the workers. No one wants to stand soaking under icy autumn rain. Especially acid rain.
Mourners stepped forward one by one to scatter a handful of earth into the open grave. I easily recognized friends and acquaintances. Yana, even Igor, my old reenactment buddies, members of my disbanded team, and even some rivals, including the finalists of the cup before last. Quite the turnout — I hadn't expected them to come.
In any case, my friends were well, and that was the main reason I'd come here at all.
Mud squelched underfoot as my turn came.
I scooped earth with a human hand and tossed it onto the growing mound covering the coffin. Whispering spread around: everyone asking one another if anyone knew who I was. I said a brief farewell and turned away from the grave before questions came. Of course, I could've brushed them off, but I had no mood to lie and wriggle.
Beep-beep-beep! An inappropriately cheerful tune rang out in the middle of the funeral ceremony. My uni once again calling at the worst possible moment.
Display up. Kraków manager? Again? I'd blocked him!
That guy had taken it "a little" personally that I hadn't shown up after five days… But I had no intention of listening to his promises of biblical plagues. Blocked.
I cut the call and added the number to the blacklist again.
Now the mourners' glances were rather hostile. I suppose I'd be angry too if some stranger ruined a funeral. Time to leave. Especially since the gravediggers had already taken up shovels and started filling in the grave. Funny — gravediggers, another profession robots hadn't managed to take from humans. I wondered: was it because people didn't want soulless machines beside the dead, or simply because human labor was cheaper?
Mulling that thought, I headed away, passing endless rows of tombstones, when a young voice called out:
"First time attending your own funeral?"
"I hope the last," I replied, turning to the speaker.
Apparently not only finalists of the cup before last had come to say goodbye, but of the last one as well. And he'd done it rather flamboyantly, sitting on the nearest tombstone to me. The boy looked no older than sixteen, though his bottomless gaze betrayed his true age… as did the fact that the acid rain passed right through his figure.
"What are you thinking about?" Samael asked, swinging his legs.
"That all my life's problems are because of such a little bastard," I admitted honestly.
"Mind your manners. I'm older than you can imagine…"
"And still barely a meter tall," I cut him off.
"This form is convenient for me. If I wish, I can become quite large. Very." He made a gesture with his fingers, as though pinching something tiny.
Yes, it stirred memories… More than that, I now understood that at our first meeting he had ripped my soul out. Literally. And yet, despite that, I wasn't afraid of him at all.
"Why did you come?" I asked the god, and at the same time noticed that Astarot had hidden himself as deep as he possibly could. I couldn't feel his presence at all.
"Just curious." He waved a hand. "Why didn't you want to return home? You had the chance."
"I did," I confirmed evenly.
He was silent for a while, then added in a changed voice:
"Your exile was supposed to be punishment, not reward. I shoved you as far away as I possibly could — a tiny shard of a world, so deep in nonexistence even I prefer not to go there… And you want to return there?"
"That's right. Which means you lost again, doesn't it?"
He grimaced as if I'd dumped a bucket of filth on him.
"Do. Not. Anger. Me."
"If you're angry, it means you still haven't learned how to accept defeat."
For a while he was silent, then turned toward a billboard that now displayed an ad for yet another MMO.
"You have a fine world. I had never visited worlds without magic before, and it seems I was wrong not to. So many different games, so much room for my growth… Only one thing unsettles me: the stakes are too small. You lose without even noticing, and when you win, you don't even rejoice. I don't like that; winning and losing should matter. They should be matters of life and death. You had contacts for my branch in New Moscow; why didn't you come? I thought you loved to play." His voice was calm enough, but beneath it lurked notes of threat.
"I had more important things to do."
"What could be more important than a game? Besides... you already agreed."
"You're mistaken. I never agreed."
"I don't care. This body must play." He made a gesture with his hand, literally pulling something out of the air and tossing it at me.
I caught it reflexively. A VR helmet, but crudely modified. The block that read brain impulses had been reworked, wires wrapped in tape sticking out, and several large capacitors protruded, clearly not part of the original design.
"As I said, I don't like small stakes. The power system is modified; you could say it's the participant's personal electric chair. The loser will take the full hundred amps. The audience loves it when the losers… burn." He smirked.
His childish troll slang grated on me. And this was a god? Pfft.
"Not interested. You can resurrect this guy and play with him if you like." I threw the helmet back at him, only for it to pass straight through Samael.
"Hm. Perhaps then you want revenge? Every day dozens of people die in my games. I've been running them for half a year. You're the heroic type, into saving people and all that, right?"
"Those people knew what they were getting into. I'm not obliged to save every idiot who risks his life out of his own stupidity. I'm responsible only for my own people," I replied, turning to leave, but Samael suddenly appeared right in front of me.
"Not so fast. You see, there's one little problem between us. To be a god of something, you must be the best at it. And I am the god of games."
"Good for you."
"I want a rematch. Stay and play me again. Besides, the boy whose body you took, that's exactly what he wanted. Fulfill the will of the departed."
"A rematch is what you want, not me. And… Didn't I win our rematch already by surviving in the place you threw me into?"
He winced as if it caused him pain.
"I. Need. Another. One."
"You need it. What's in it for me?"
"In return, I'll stop trying to drag your home world into the Great Game."
"What?" I didn't understand him.
"You do care about that world, don't you? I've already run a little scheme here, lured in some arrogant long-eared bastards, and now I'm working on getting something truly vast to turn its gaze upon this world. It'll be glorious: an entire planet drawn into a grand survival game!"
"Do as you like. I no longer belong to this world, even my body is literally buried in the ground. People here… are too used to shifting their problems onto others. They'll have to take their fate into their own hands, or die," I added, stepping forward and dispersing his figure.
"Ha-ha, fine words," came from behind. "But alas, I cannot remain defeated. How about a deal? If you save your tiny shard of a world, then I will accept defeat."
I didn't slow my step or look back, but I tossed over my shoulder:
"Deal."
Because I had no intention of losing.
Comments
Johan Timmers
Tftc
LOLZMAN
Sorry for the lack of comments, I guess? Though given that most, if not all, the patron poeple here are from your translated story, why would we know about your story beforehand if it isn't translated? The reason for the lack of comments is likely that you hit the nail on the head with this bleak near future that there isn't much to say but yeah that seems like whats its going to be. Honestly, the randal should hold a lot of leverage over Samuel, given that he is the single black mark on his record. Further, he can use the reason that if he isn't fully committed or he is worried about something (Samuel using the threat of his loved ones), then he isn't at his best, so even if he is beaten, Samuel couldn't beat him at his best. Last part of this comment is asking if the ending of the story will be him saving his new home from Dastan, while that would be likely the best place ot leave it. I gotta admit I am kinda interested in the idea of what would happen once Randal has full control of the world disc and has fully industrialised it, if it was brought into the larger magic sphere, like what would the empire's reaction be to it?
HF3d3d HF3d3dHF3d3d
Well, the modern-day arc is coming to an end and… almost no comments. Sad! This arc actually has a TON of references to my first book - they’re essentially set in the same world… except this is basically a prequel to it. But unfortunately, I most likely won’t be translating that book. And the reason is… I have one problem - I write too complexly. Each of my books is just a little bit simpler than the last. I’m trying to fight it. So, my first book is essentially a detective story, even though it’s LitRPG. And it’s damn complicated. Remember the first chapter of Spells vs Shells? It’s pretty chaotic, confusing, and overall not very clear. Well, my first book, To Kill the Herald, is basically one enormous first chapter. For half the book, the MC is just trying to figure out what’s happening around him, how the world works and by what rules - all in order to escape a truly hopeless situation. I still like this book, but I’m certain that 99 out of 100 readers would just drop it in the first few chapters without ever figuring out what’s what. That’s why I most likely won’t be translating it. Unfortunately, that also means most of the references in this arc will never be understood by the readers…
