The air in the old scriptorium smelled not merely of dust. It held a thin, acrid mixture of ash, burnt ink, and old parchment that had lain too long in the dark. Light from a narrow window fell upon a floor littered with scraps of pages — the byproduct of centuries of diligent copying and equally diligent burning of anything that deviated from the canon.
«Perfect,» Valos thought, stepping carefully across the wooden floor that creaked like old bones. «An information dump. There's enough mad ideas here to conceal my own. Or to attract the attention of one who feeds on them.»
His gaze swept over the piles of junk. And snagged on a sheet of parchment, almost intact, pinned beneath the leg of a broken table.
He bent down and picked it up. The ink was faded, brown, almost rust-colored. The drawing was executed with painful, obsessive precision — a pentagram inscribed within a seven-pointed star. The lines were labeled in tiny, bead-like letters in the Common tongue: «Blood is fuel. The perfect, tireless, and obedient machine of war.»
Valos's heart stopped for a moment. He turned the sheet over.
On the reverse side was a sketch. Not artistic. Technical, with measurements and schematic cross-sections.
A humanoid machine. Glassy, empty eyes in a metal skull, around which, like the petals of a monstrous flower, additional sensor-lenses were arranged. A manipulator tail extending from the spine. Arsenal-wings: within them, among schematically drawn swords and axes, the outlines of devices with long barrels and primitive sights could be discerned. One of them was crudely labeled as «Long-range strike. Speed: maximum. Cost: 100 ml/ shot.»
But what struck him most was the overall form. The proportions, the angularity, the concept. This was not a medieval vision of a golem. This was… a mech. Futuristic, disturbingly familiar. One of the outlines bore a striking resemblance to a simplified diagram of a .50 BMG sniper rifle.
«A local mind couldn't have dreamed up such a nightmare,» flashed through his mind, cold and distinct. «This is an echo from somewhere else. From a world where machines kill from a distance, and blood is currency.»
Instinct commanded him to burn it. Immediately. But the smell of burning in the castle now would cause panic. He would be suspected of heresy, of concealment. It would attract unwanted attention — not from the Old Man, but from very earthly and unpleasant people.
Methodically, with a stone face, he tore the page into small, unreadable shreds and shoved them under a nearby shelf, into the thickness of centuries-old dust. «Let it rot with the rest of the trash.»
He took a deep breath. There was no time to delay. The demons were not waiting. And he needed an advantage. A permanent one. Not one-time knowledge, but a tool.
The book on the Library stated: in the life of any remotely competent mage, there is an important stage of training — obtaining a Slot. An Archive. Not just memory, but a structured space where one can not only store spells but also model them, experiment without risking turning one's own mind into a hallucinating ruin.
Valos crossed his arms over his chest. The gesture seemed silly, theatrical. But the text claimed it helped focus on the act of transmission, rather than the request.
«Alright, old man. Or Library. Or whatever you are. Let's make a deal.»
Mentally, clearly, he formulated the request: access to the Babylonian Library system. Objective: obtaining a personal Slot.
Now, the «entry fee.» Unique knowledge. He had already dismissed the theory of relativity and quantum mechanics — too fundamental, too similar to the magic of the higher spheres, about which they might already know everything here. He needed something grounded, but brilliant in its simplicity. Something that might not exist in this magical world.
He recalled an old university project. A thesis on cryptography. «The principle of generating true random numbers based on atmospheric noise.» The idea that order could be born from the absolute, incalculable chaos of nature. Without magic. Without will. Simply by listening to the noise of the world.
Mentally, he packaged the idea: physical principles, a diagram of a simple receiver, mathematical justification of the entropy source. And offered it. As a seed of order found in chaos.
He waited for lightning. A voice from the heavens. A dramatic flash.
Nothing.
Only, suddenly, it became quiet. Absolutely. The creaking of the floor, the wind outside the window, even his own breathing disappeared. And then — a drop.
***
He stood. But not with his feet. His consciousness floated in a space that rejected all laws of physics. It was not a room, nor a cave. It was infinity in reverse perspective. Shelves, bookcases, entire architectural masses of books stretched upward, downward, sideways, lost in a surreal distance. The books were nameless, their spines smooth, the color of old parchment. There was no air. Only knowledge, compressed, silent, and heavy.
Something crept toward him.
The Librarian. White as bone, a spider the size of a large dog. Its legs were unnaturally thin, long, like antennae. In place of a head was a single large, motionless red eye, within which hundreds of tiny red dots flickered and rearranged themselves, like a matrix of surveillance cameras.
The creature did not speak with its mouth. The words formed directly in Valos's consciousness, soundless, dry, devoid of intonation, like reading an automatic protocol.
PRIMARY LEVEL ACCESS RULES.
1. DO NOT TOUCH THE BOOKS. PHYSICAL CONTACT IS PROHIBITED.
2. EXCHANGE OF KNOWLEDGE IS CONDUCTED ONLY THROUGH LIBRARIANS.
3. REGISTRATION REQUIRES SCANNING OF SOUL SIGNATURE. REFUSAL WILL RESULT IN TERMINATION OF CONNECTION. CONSENT IMPLIES STORAGE OF IMPRINT FOR FUTURE SESSIONS. IN CASE OF RULE VIOLATION, ACCESS WILL BE BLOCKED AND CONNECTION RESET.
Valos, or rather his projection, nodded mentally. There was no choice.
AGREED.
The spider's red eye blazed. From it came not a beam of light, but a sensation. Thousands of invisible needles, cold and sharp, pierced the phantom shell of his consciousness, rummaging in the deepest depths, reading not his thoughts but the very unique vibration of his existence. It was not painful. It was a million times worse — a complete, absolute loss of privacy. As if his soul had been leafed through, like a book, at the highest speed.
SOUL RECOGNIZED. INFORMATION TRANSMITTED, sounded in his head.
Immediately, from the shadows between the shelves, three more white spiders crawled out. Their red eyes blazed almost simultaneously. Thousands of needles pierced him again.
SOUL VERIFIED. DATA TRANSMITTED.
IMPRINT SAVED. CHANNEL ESTABLISHED.
CONNECTION STABLE. READY TO RECEIVE REQUEST.
— ENOUGH! — Valos mentally screamed, unable to bear this cold, mechanical violation.
The spiders froze. Their red eyes continued to flicker, but the assault of sensation ceased.
Silence became absolute once more. And then it was broken by a voice. But not mechanical. Human. Weary, slightly ironic, and painfully familiar. It came not from the spiders, but from everywhere at once.
— Aaaa… Yuki. It's you. Indeed. I was expecting you.
An icy hand gripped Valos's non-existent heart. Yuki. «He knows. He KNOWS.»
— I know why you came here. For the Slot, isn't that right? — the voice sounded almost friendly. — The very fact that you are standing here and… breathing means success. Congratulations on passing the primary filter.
Valos tried to «say» something, to form a mental question. But the voice anticipated him.
— Before you ask, «Am I not the first to reincarnate?» — no, Yuki. You are neither the first. And most likely, not the last. An experiment must be reproducible, statistically significant. We do appreciate science, don't we?
«We.» The word sounded like a sentence.
— So, I hope you chose the knowledge for exchange well. Not like that fellow with the flat earth theory. We have a whole department of curiosities from the likes of him. Now, after all the formalities… may I review the proposal? To verify its uniqueness.
Mentally, gritting his teeth, Valos «extended» the packaged idea: the diagram, the principles, the formulas of atmospheric noise as a source of entropy.
And again, the needles. But this time, one of them, sharp and icy, went deeper. It dug into the very memories associated with this knowledge: the university library, the smell of coffee, the flickering screen of an old computer, the feeling of weary triumph when the code finally worked… Pain. Not physical. The pain of these personal, intimate fragments of life being torn out and coldly examined.
The voice returned, and in it sounded a slight, almost professional satisfaction.
— Unique. Truly. An elegant idea — using the chaos of the world against itself. In our archives… from this angle… no. Accepted.
There was no pause. The voice continued, becoming slightly faster, almost businesslike.
— So then. As a special… reader… I have a special offer for you. Along with the installation of one Slot, I will throw in something extra. Defragmentation of memories. You even forgot your original mission, didn't you? Damn it, Nicole, can't you do anything neatly!
Ah, you… We will talk about this.
Valos's heart sank into an abyss. «Nicole? Mission?»
The thought had no time to form before the voice was with him again, once more friendly and patronizing.
— …Ah, you… Don't worry. We will talk about everything. Later. For now, receive your tool. And, by the way, to avoid raising unnecessary suspicion in the castle when you return… my advice: go and get thoroughly drunk. It will be a logical excuse for your condition. Eh, and why must *I* be the one to babysit your universe… Oh, I forgot you're still here… Byyyyye…
The last word dissolved into white noise. And then it began.
The integration of the Slot was not pain. It was violence against the structure of thought. The sensation that his skull had been cracked open, all its contents emptied — all memories, all skills, all the chaotic flow of consciousness — onto a giant, impeccably clean table. And then they began to organize it. Quickly, ruthlessly, with manic precision.
The childhood memories of Valos Muldran: neatly shelved. Knowledge gleaned from books: into separate catalogs. Tactical diagrams, plans, resource lists: into structured tables. And then… other threads began to stretch. Thoughts flared and died, memories rearranged themselves, finding their places. He saw fragments: his old, boring apartment… a monitor screen with code… the face of an old friend who had gotten him a job after a series of failures… not at an insurance investigation agency, but… as a cybersecurity specialist, taken on "through connections" to deal with digital fraud. Vague, washed out by a haze: a bright flash, the sound of a gunshot, cold asphalt, a quiet voice: «What Is The Meaning Of Life?»
That was not a memory. That was a command. A mission.
When the process ended, Valos did not «wake up.» He came to himself. He opened his inner eye. Before him was a white room.
Absolutely empty, perfectly clean, lit by a uniform, sourceless light. This was the Slot. An empty, structured space in his mind. And surrounding it, perfectly organized, instantly accessible archives — all his memories, all his knowledge, everything he had ever read or heard. He remembered everything. His own life. Valos's life. His mission. The young baronet's drunken escapades. The boring office routine. That very alley where he was shot…
He was whole. And he was a tool in someone's hands.
Order reigned in his head. Absolute, frightening. He could instantly recall the formula for a basic fireball or the layout of the city's warehouses. He knew exactly how much gold remained in the treasury (little). But he had not changed; he would simply have to get used to his new state and filter out unnecessary memories.
The return to the material world was sharp as an electric shock. He stood in the same spot in the scriptorium, arms crossed. The dust tickled his nose again. The same ray of light fell from the window. It seemed no time had passed at all.
And he felt a faint, phantom headache — not his own. Someone else's. Spreading through the city.
***
The first signs came on the way to the «Merry Troll» tavern, where he headed, following the advice. Two peasants approached him — those very ones who had been working with the magical «shovels.» Their faces were grey with fatigue, their eyes red.
— Sir… my head… is splitting, — one muttered, barely staying on his feet. — And dreams… Terrible. The earth whispers. Screams.
Valos, with his newly acquired clarity of mind, instantly analyzed: stress, mana exhaustion, possible contact with residual energy from the necromancer. Logical. But something clicked in the back of his now perfectly organized consciousness. Too many complaints in too short a time. A statistical anomaly.
He waved it off, promised to send a nun with a herbal brew, and continued on. He really did need a drink. Badly.
He did not make it to the tavern.
At the well in the main square, he saw it. Or rather, *it*.
The «chicken.»
It was scrabbling at the base of the well. It was not an animal. It was a clump. Feathers stuck to exposed, bluish muscles. Bones jutting at unnatural angles. A beak fused with a scrap of skin into something resembling a grin. It was the size of a turkey, but its form was crude, hastily cobbled together, as if a child had tried to sculpt a bird from clay without ever having seen one.
And it was rolling. Not walking. Rolling in a clump, like a failed snowball, directly toward him.
It emanated a faint but familiar magical residue. The same metallic, ozone tang that had hung around the dragon bones. But not structured, like the necromancer's. This was a chaotic, wild seepage of magic into matter. Spontaneous mutation. Like a cancerous tumor suddenly gaining mobility.
Valos, forgetting all dignity, forgetting the onlookers, recoiled and shouted the first thing that came to his now perfectly organized mind in his panic:
— BURN IN HOLY FIRE, CREATURE!
A ball of white-gold flame burst from his outstretched palm. Small, but fierce. It engulfed the «chicken.» And it simply crumbled, turning into a handful of ash and extinguished embers.
Valos stood, breathing heavily. His ears pounded. «Now I definitely, FUCKING need to get drunk.»
The «Merry Troll» tavern greeted him with its familiar buzz and the smell of sour ale. He collapsed onto a bench in the corner, nodded to the innkeeper. A few mugs of ale later, a clay bowl of stew was set before him. Thick, meaty, with floating root vegetables.
He scooped up a spoonful. Brought it to his mouth.
And froze.
The surface of the stew stirred. Not from steam. Not from a trembling hand. On it, from a slick of fat and broth, formed… a little face. Primitive, made of two dot-eyes and an arc-mouth.
The mouth stretched into a wide, unnatural smile.
The soup smiled back at him.
Valos slowly, very slowly, lowered the spoon back into the bowl. The smile rippled on the surface, dissolving back into harmless fat.
He looked up and met the eyes of the innkeeper, Bartholomew, who was wiping mugs.
— Is the stew special today? — Valos asked. His voice sounded remarkably calm.
— As always, sir! — the innkeeper replied cheerfully. — Beef from last week, our own root vegetables! Nothing extra!
Valos looked at the bowl. At the serene, steaming surface of the soup.
«Nothing extra. Except spontaneously emerging zoomorphic life.»
He carefully pushed the bowl aside. Took out his coin purse and laid a coin on the table. Stood up.
— Thank you. I've suddenly lost my appetite.
He stepped out into the gathering dusk. The city around him lived its life: the cries of merchants, the clang of a smith's hammer, laughter. But somewhere in this chaos of sounds now lurked a quiet grinding at the edge of audibility. And in the air, beneath the smells of bread and manure, hung a sweetish, barely perceptible scent of ozone and hot blood.
He had received his Slot. He remembered his mission.
And now he understood: in a world where soup begins to smile and chickens are cobbled together from pain and magic, his primary task was not to answer the eternal question.
It was simply to survive long enough for that question to still have meaning.