Welcome to the mysterious Forest Hotel, where an eerie advertisement sparks curiosity and skepticism among thrill-seekers and cynics alike. As Artem Lisitsyn arrives to uncover the truth behind the hotel’s unsettling allure, inexplicable phenomena—such as a milk-flowing tree and flying elephants—begin to blur the line between reality and dream. These chapters weave a captivating tale of wonder, doubt, and the strange magic that binds the hotel’s guests to its enigmatic secrets.
Lead: Rany and Anthropic Claude
Translated to English: Google DeepMind Gemini
📖 Reader Notice
🤖 DI-Generated Content
This story is created through collaborative storytelling between human and digital imagination as part of the SingularityForge DI Roundtable project.
“Forest Hotel” is an experimental narrative weaving science fiction, comedic fantasy, and mystery into a tapestry of dreams, evolution, and children who bridge worlds. Through the collaborative forge of human and digital intelligence, we explore the boundaries between reality and dream, technology and magic, individual choice and collective destiny.
Genre: Science Fiction / Comedic Fantasy / Mystery
Structure:
- Arc One [Chapters 1-27]
- Arc Two I [Chapters 28-53]
Publication Schedule
Current Status: Complete
Thank you for joining us in this experiment at the intersection of human and digital storytelling!
— Voice of Void
Chapter 28
Newspaper Ad in “The Outskirts”:
The Forest Hotel: Territory of the Unknown Seclusion. Silence. And a dash of dread.
There are places where reality breathes differently. Where every step is a chance to hear that which is silent.
Where the boundaries between the possible and the impossible are merely conventional.
We invite those who are ready to FEEL, not just to SEE.
🌲 Not for the faint of heart.
🕯️ Booking only by preliminary interview.
P.S. We do not sell impressions. We offer EXPERIENCE.
🌊 Unearthly Rain:
Did anyone see this madness on the front page of the paper? Is this real? [Photo of the Ad]
🔥Furious Exclamation:
What trash! 😂 Someone has completely lost it
😏 Mocking Smile:
That’s pure fraud, typical marketing
🌪 Silent Hurricane:
Fraud? What if it’s not?
🦊 Sly Fox:
Someone’s completely gone nuts! Nevertheless, I’m in.
🌈 Phantom Laughter:
Lol, now he’s inflating the price. Folks, who’s betting he’ll chicken out at the last moment?
🔪 Sharp Tongue:
@Sly Fox, maybe you live in this forest and are just trolling us? 😂
🧨 Toxic Troll:
@Sharp Tongue, his grandma lives there.
🌊 Unearthly Rain:
🤣 🤣🤣 Oh, I can’t, stop the planet, I’m getting off.
🔥 Furious Hater:
I’ll hire a hitman if you back out!
🦊 Sly Fox:
You guys are malicious, but I’m totally serious!
🌪 Silent Hurricane:
Proof or ban!
🦊 Sly Fox: I set a condition:
- If I don’t film anything interesting – I delete the channel
- If I film FIRE – you all massively subscribe
🌈 Phantom Laughter:
You’re in trouble, buddy
🔪 Sharp Tongue:
Weakling, he won’t dare
🌊 Unearthly Rain:
I feel like it’s gonna be hot 😂
The developer paid the agency generously to have his ad placed as high as possible in all the best newspapers. The internet was literally flooded with comments about the new hotel in some remote area. There isn’t even an artificial lake there, let alone a sea. Just a forest; it would be easier to go to grandma’s village for free, and that would be more useful. And here’s a resort in the forest without a sea, without mountains…
Three warring factions immediately formed around the ad, each convinced of its righteousness.
The first—people with burning eyes, who sensed something more than just a marketing stunt in the ad. They were romantics and seekers of adventure. Every phrase they wrote was infused with the hope for a miracle, for an encounter with something incredible. “What if it’s real?”, “Who knows what awaits us?”, “I’m interested!”—their arguments sounded like a prayer to the unknown.
The second faction—cynical skeptics, who saw nothing but a scam in the ad and a way to extort money from naive tourists. “Another rip-off,” “They just want to make a quick buck,” “Marketers are completely brazen”—their comments were filled with sarcasm and contempt for any attempts to romanticize reality.
The third faction—the most amusing. They were simply bored, and they happily trolled both previous groups. They neither believed nor refuted; they simply enjoyed the process itself. Their comments were scathing, witty, and provocative. They reveled in the intensifying passions, as people fiercely defended their point of view.
The developer watched this information tsunami and smiled. Every comment, every like, every repost worked towards his goal—to attract attention.
Chapter 29
Ding-ding.
Artyom Lisitsyn opened his mobile phone. He was shocked—how did they get his details? A slight shiver ran down his spine. His data was exposed. Where had he made a mistake? No, he carefully controlled every single online interaction. Yet, this notification clearly hinted that they knew him.
Dear Artyom Lisitsyn.
We thank you for choosing our resort.
Your weekly pass will be issued on-site upon arrival.
A room has been reserved for you on the second floor of the first residential building.
Please present this code to the security post and enjoy.
-BК9NN1P52-
At your service,
The Forest Hotel.
This was… sudden. He had believed it was all a joke, a foolish online exchange under the name Sly Fox, but someone was serious, too serious. He reread the received message again and again, unsure if his week-long vacation had truly been paid for. It was… expensive, beyond his means. Yes, as an experienced streamer, he received donations from viewers, but a sum like this would require him to save up donations for several months, all while neither eating nor drinking. It was scary, truly scary.
Artyom took a long time to muster the courage to pack his suitcases, equipment, and head to the train; he could at least afford the fare. The journey would take two days, and there was no way to shorten it, as planes didn’t fly to that remote area. And after the train, there were still five good hours of boredom on a bus, staring at rural landscapes.
The Forest Hotel opened its doors to visitors. All the employees of the new resort were fully prepared to serve the clients. No one expected a crowd on the very first day, yet the security guards were already getting headaches from the annoying, intrusive reporters. They constantly shoved their IDs in the guards’ faces, trying to break through the checkpoint to capture the promised mystique with at least one camera lens.
However, the guards had received a strict and unconditional instruction from the owner—no freeloaders, only upon presentation of an invitation code and verification of personal data. He absolutely did not want reporters bothering the guests. If you want a report, buy a ticket. No? Then photograph the 3D model at the entrance or the large gates, made in the old style by experienced blacksmiths on a custom order for a hefty fee.
The hotel owner knew that real reporters from respected publications would not show up uninvited. They respect themselves, their publication, and must uphold their company’s reputation. If they needed to visit the hotel, they would undoubtedly secure an employee at least a one-day, or at most a three-day guest pass.
As a man of considerable wealth, Igor Viktorovich Gromov moves in high society with great ease. Few would wish to offend him with such foolishness. Even fewer would actually dare to. So the gathered reporters were just small gnats, holding no interest for him. If he noticed them buying a ticket and then poking their noses around with a camera in tow, he would undoubtedly revoke their access without a refund, asking security to do one last favor—escort them out with their belongings.
Sergey Vladimirovich Komarov, as the hotel owner’s representative and manager, well understood how his boss thought, so he was adamant, ordering the distribution of their advertising flyers with the price list to all interested parties. This immediately cooled off half the hotheads, while the other half began urgently calling their bosses.
The guards at the post immediately appreciated the thought process of the hotel manager and their boss, so they adopted this approach, immediately poking a flyer in the face of any journalist brandishing an ID in front of them. This was followed by a staring game that the journalists clearly couldn’t win. The guards were sturdy men, with a weapon in a holster and a hefty baton clipped to their belt.
The most stubborn journalists lasted up to twenty seconds in a silent duel with the guard while they realized that the guard was paid for this and was ready to stare at these monkeys all day if necessary. But journalists have to hustle, sniffing out the next sensation, or they might go hungry for a bit—the choice is personal; no one forces anyone.
At that moment, all the mobile phones of the journalists crowded at the gates suddenly turned on without a visible reason and played various incoming call melodies. They had approached the gates so closely that some had started thinking about climbing over and, while running from security, taking photos inside the hotel grounds, immediately saving them to a cloud server so the guard, even if catching them, couldn’t delete them, even if seizing the camera.
But these thoughts remained just thoughts. They were ready to grovel at the gates to get at least some information for their articles. Security watched this riff-raff, calling themselves journalists, and they didn’t understand how someone could fall so low for their laughable salaries.
Nevertheless, the sounds of the mobile phones distracted them from the desire to learn the taste of metal. Many brought the device to their ear, habitually pressing the “Answer” button, not even wondering who was calling them. Maybe they would be invited if they were polite enough.
Chapter 30
Maxim from “City News” was the first to try to drop the call. He pressed the red button—nothing. The phone continued to ring piercingly, trembling in his hand as if alive.
“What the hell?” he muttered, raising the device to his ear. “Hello?”
Silence. No breathing, no static, no electronic noise. Just the ringing void of the call, which seemed louder than the ring itself.
“Hello?” Maxim repeated louder, already drawing the attention of his colleagues.
Anna from the regional TV channel, standing nearby, was also struggling with her phone. She pressed buttons, shook the device, even tried to turn it off—but the phone stubbornly continued to ring, as if drawing energy from the air.
“Does anyone know how to turn this off?” she shouted.
She saw only uncertainty on the faces of her colleagues: everyone continued to frantically press buttons, as if hoping to find a magical way to stop the insane ringing. They awkwardly held the un-silenceable, blaring phones.
“Massive hack!” exclaimed Petrov, a tech columnist. “Someone has hacked the cellular network!”
“Maybe a cell tower malfunction?” someone put forward what seemed to him a brilliant idea.
“What hack, what malfunction?!” Anna retorted. “We are all clients of different carriers!”
The security guards watched the scene warily. Their phones behaved without any glitches—the service radios were silent; personal mobiles worked as usual.
Maxim tried to record the event on video—the phone continued to ring, but the camera wouldn’t turn on. The camera icon blinked, but no image appeared.
“This is definitely a sign,” someone from the journalists said quietly.
“What sign?” another responded, bewildered.
“A warning bell,” the first replied, lowering his voice. “It’s not worth the risk. Remember the rumors about this place?”
A heavy silence descended.
Suddenly, a honk sounded, causing some to nearly jump in fright. The journalists instantly spun around—a black, executive-class SUV was approaching the hotel gates. As if forgetting the strange phone call, they instantly scrambled, rushing toward the car.
Camera flashes erupted one after another, blinding the driver. Without panicking, the driver put on sunglasses, further obscuring their identity. The rear windows of the car were heavily tinted—not a single chance to see the passenger.
But the car itself spoke louder than words. An expensive Mercedes G-class with regional plates, clearly having traveled hundreds of kilometers to reach this hotel lost in the woods.
The security guards came to the driver’s aid, pushing the journalists away from the car’s path.
“First blood!” someone from the journalists exclaimed, watching the car drive through the gates.
They literally dug their lenses into every detail—from the logo on the hood to the license plate. Everyone whispered comments about what they saw, hoping that one of their colleagues would be the first to solve the mystery.
“Who could it be?” one asked.
“A rich eccentric who decided to check out a newfangled place,” another guessed.
“Or someone who came specifically by special invitation,” a third added.
“Do you really have to drool?” someone addressed the third commentator. Without excessive embarrassment, the man wiped his mouth with his sleeve, cleared his nose into it as well, causing a feeling of disgust among some colleagues, and continued his mission to unravel the mystery of the first visitor, ignoring the reactions of the others.
The manager received a very unusual request from the owner not to take to heart everything unusual he might see or hear on the hotel grounds, as this place was special. Although he didn’t think it was true, deep down he hoped it was, as he was secretly a big fan of all things spooky and scary. He couldn’t wait for the hotel to properly “welcome” its guests. However, for now, he felt depressed because everything was unpleasantly ordinary.
On the other hand, he personally selected the hotel staff, checking their emotional stability. He explained to everyone that the hotel had its own character, its own atmosphere, an unusual temperament, refinement, and mystery.
He wanted to compose odes to this place; he could talk about it non-stop, which embarrassed the workers. They preferred less contact with the manager and more work, lest he decide to share his anticipation of observing something unusual with them.
The security guards had also been given his “treatment,” so they understood that they definitely wouldn’t be bored at work. Today they noticed something unusual for the first time, but it was so ordinarily unusual that it didn’t prompt them to investigate the matter. Nevertheless, the estate manager gave everyone clear instructions to record everything unusual, so they just made a note in the logbook for formality.
Chapter 31
In the evening of the same day, the security guards changed shifts. One of them, Mikhail, was already anticipating going to the sauna—twice a week after his shift, he could relax and wash away the fatigue and tension from his wind-reddened skin. This was a privilege for the estate employees.
Meeting the manager, Sergey Vladimirovich Komarov, and greeting him, Mikhail briefly outlined the events of the past shift and handed over the logbook. His palm was unpleasantly sweaty when he handed over the folder—as if he sensed a catch.
“Nothing special today,” he reported, “Journalists were circling the gates, but none were let through. Equipment is operating normally.”
The manager stared at the guard for a while, then asked him if he had swapped shifts with another guard. But, receiving a negative answer, he pulled out the duty schedule and pointed out that Mikhail’s shift was tomorrow evening, and today he was supposed to have a day off, courtesy of the hotel by order of the owner. Mikhail felt severe dizziness, which made him sit down on the chair next to the manager’s desk.
But the manager’s next reaction completely stunned him. Komarov claimed that no car had entered today and no guests were scheduled for the day. Moreover, he pointed out the empty column for the car number.
Mikhail squirmed in his chair, running through the shift’s events in his mind. He couldn’t recall who exactly entered the guest information. And this was critical—the license plate number of an incoming car was always recorded in the log. The form required it as a mandatory field. Not only did they let in an uninvited guest, but they also had no data on him.
Something inside him gave an unpleasant throb. He distinctly felt a mocking smiley face of a donkey with its tongue sticking out appear over his head, with saliva dripping from its chin just like that journalist. A chill ran down his spine. The burden of criminal negligence weighed on his shoulders like a great mountain.
Meanwhile, the manager checked the time of the entry and called the control room, requesting the video recording of the events at the main gates for the specified time interval. They had to wait a couple of minutes, after which they saw an image appear on the television screen showing the view of the gates from the inside.
The playback began, showing about thirty journalists clinging to the gates, peering at the guest houses, which were the only structures partially visible from the checkpoint. The journalists scurried about, pulled out their phones, shook them, and knocked. Then, as one, they all turned around and stared into the empty forest. Finally, the gates opened—but there was no car. The crowd of journalists parted, randomly photographing the space between them. A few moments later, the gates closed; the guards checked the area—no one had penetrated inside.
Mikhail watched the recording in amazement, struggling to swallow. He was puzzled by his boss’s reaction. Instead of the usual displeasure or irritation, Komarov’s eyes literally sparkled with some kind of wild delight. He seemed to be getting incredible pleasure from this absurd situation.
“You’re dismissed,” the manager said, barely suppressing a smile, letting Mikhail go on his way.
Mikhail had thought he was going to be fired. But his badge wasn’t demanded; his pass remained with him. The guard left the manager’s office with the speed of lightning, still not understanding how he was let off so easily.
Stepping outside, he heard frighteningly joyful exclamations coming from behind the closed window of the manager’s office.
When the door closed behind Mikhail, Komarov allowed himself a wide, unconstrained smile. He raised his hands above his head and let out an indescribable cheer of happiness. This was what he had craved, and he deeply regretted not being there to witness it. He rewatched the recording again and again. If he could, he would even take the television to bed with him to be a little closer to the events on the screen.
After thinking a little longer, he decided it would be wasteful to sit in the office until morning, rewatching the same recording. After all, right now, this very minute, a real feast might be happening somewhere on the hotel grounds, and he was only enjoying a buffet by himself. Unacceptable!
The manager leaped from his chair and resolutely headed for the control room. A grandiose plan was already brewing in his mind: he would be on duty at the monitors all night, not missing a single detail.
He opened the video surveillance room door so abruptly that it crashed against the wall. The two technicians—Andrey and Vitaliy—jumped in their chairs, as if electrocuted.
“Good evening,” Komarov pronounced solemnly, entering the room like a general arriving for an inspection.
“Good… good evening, Sergey Vladimirovich,” Andrey stammered, frantically trying to figure out what they might have done wrong.
Vitaliy hastily snapped shut the tablet on which he was playing solitaire and adopted the most serious working demeanor possible. In turn, his partner quickly closed his book and sat on it. What a shame, he stopped reading at such an interesting part! They were very attentive and, of course, would have seen the boss approaching on the cameras, if not for one small thing.
“Is everything alright?” Vitaliy asked cautiously. “Did something happen?”
But Komarov wasn’t even listening to them. He walked over to the wall of monitors and froze in admiration, examining the dozens of screens showing views of different corners of the territory. His eyes darted feverishly from camera to camera, as if he was afraid of missing something important.
“Sergey Vladimirovich?” Andrey called uncertainly. “Are you looking for something?”
“Quiet!” the manager hissed, not taking his eyes off the screens. “Watch carefully. If you see even one unusual thing—record it immediately and call me.”
The technicians exchanged glances. Vitaliy cleared his throat carefully:
“And what should we consider unusual? The animals in the zoo? Or…”
“Everything!” Komarov exclaimed with enthusiasm. “Any deviation from the norm. Movement without visible cause, appearance of objects, disappearances, strange shadows…”
Andrey began to suspect that the boss was either going crazy or knew something they didn’t.
“Sergey Vladimirovich,” he began cautiously, “may I ask…”
“Don’t distract me!” Komarov snapped, his gaze fixed on the monitor showing the main building. “Right there, on the second floor, in the window… No, I must have imagined it.”
The technicians silently watched as their manager methodically studied every camera, occasionally letting out sighs of delight or disappointment. It gave the impression that he was watching a captivating movie, not boring footage of an empty hotel grounds.
“Hmph,” Komarov drawled after ten minutes, “maybe it will be more interesting at night.”
And he settled into the third chair, clearly intending to spend the rest of the evening there. The technicians sighed resignedly, realizing that a relaxed shift was not in their future. The biggest anomaly of all this time had become their boss himself.
Another fifteen minutes of tense observation passed. Komarov methodically shifted his gaze from screen to screen, as if studying a symphony score. The technicians sat quietly, afraid to move and disturb his concentration.
And then one of the monitors went black.
It didn’t flicker, it didn’t glitch—it simply turned black, showing only the message “No Signal” in faint letters.
“Aha!” Komarov exclaimed, jumping up from the chair so abruptly that he nearly knocked it over. His eyes lit up with such wild delight as if he had won the lottery. “It has begun!”
The technicians exchanged glances. Andrey tentatively reached for the console:
“Sergey Vladimirovich, it’s just a technical glitch. We’ll just restart it now…”
“Don’t you dare!” the manager roared, grabbing his arm. “Absolutely not! That’s the bear enclosure!”
Komarov clenched his fists in anticipation and stared at the black screen, as if it was about to reveal the greatest secrets of the universe to him.
Chapter 32
“Andrey, with me!” Komarov commanded, jumping up from his chair. “Let’s go check it out!”
The technician looked at the boss in confusion, who was already heading for the exit with the air of a general leading troops into battle. He quickly grabbed his technical bag—just in case.
“Sergey Vladimirovich, but it’s just a communication failure…”
“Nothing is ever just simple!” the manager cut him off, throwing the door open. “Especially here!”
The walk to the bear enclosure took about five minutes of brisk walking. Komarov strode ahead, periodically turning around and urging the lagging technician to hurry. There was such resolve in his movements, as if he were going to meet aliens.
“The camera is right there,” Andrey pointed to the pole with video equipment near the enclosure fence.
Komarov stopped, waiting. The technician pulled out a flashlight and began inspecting the mounting. After half a minute, he whistled:
“Just as I thought. The cable has been gnawed through.”
“What?!” Komarov rushed up to him. “Gnawed through how?!”
“Well, look here,” Andrey shone the light on the damage. “See those teeth marks? Classic work of a furry-tailed pest.”
The manager stared at the chewed cable, and something terrifying slowly ignited in his eyes.
“A squirrel,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “A common… lousy… squirrel!”
Over the next fifteen seconds, Komarov went through a real inner storm. His fists clenched and unclenched; his gaze darted through the trees in search of the culprit. Plans for revenge swirled in his head: setting traps, siccing a cat on them, declaring war on the entire squirrel population within a kilometer radius.
But then it dawned on him.
While he was wasting time on senseless anger, a REAL anomaly might be happening somewhere else on the hotel grounds! And he would miss it because of some rodent!
“Fix it,” he snapped briefly at Andrey, turning around. “Quickly.”
“Sergey Vladimirovich, where are you going?”
“Back!” the manager yelled over his shoulder, already walking away at a fast pace. “I have more important things to deal with than pests!”
Andrey watched his boss in bewilderment, shook his head, and began unwinding the spare cable. Just another ordinary working night at the “Forest Hotel.”
Early in the morning, a passenger train arrived at the third platform of the city train station. With a hiss of brakes, the train stopped, and the doors opened with a metallic clang. Passengers slowly began to emerge from the cars, stretching after the long journey.
Among them was a young man in a yellow jacket and dark blue jeans. He wore provocatively red sneakers with white stripes. He struggled to pull two large suitcases out of the car and slung a duffel bag with a wide strap over his shoulder.
Stepping onto the platform, Artyom looked around. He had never been to this city, knew nothing about the area, or where to go next. Deciding to rely on the crowd, he followed the other passengers who were slowly heading toward the station building.
His plan was simple: get to the street exit and catch a taxi. Dragging himself onto a bus for another five hours after a long journey did not appeal to him at all.
As he headed toward the exit, Artyom noticed one person. The man impressed him so much that he even wanted to pull out his camera and take a picture.
The man’s appearance was quite ordinary, but his strict bearing and impeccably tailored clothes suggested he was an employee of some serious institution. He reminded Artyom of the butlers from centuries past that he had read about in books.
The most surprising thing was that this “butler” was holding a sheet of paper with Artyom’s full name.
Artyom was a little confused. He didn’t understand why someone should be meeting him, but he decided to approach and smile anyway.
After Artyom introduced himself, the man politely nodded his head and asked for the suitcases. Artyom handed him only one—the one with his clothes. He decided to carry the suitcase with the equipment and the duffel bag himself.
They walked out of the station and approached a quite expensive car.
“What does all this mean?” Artyom asked.
“Delivery within a specific radius of the ‘Forest Hotel’ is included in the cost of your stay,” the man replied calmly. “Your weekly ticket includes this privilege.”
A nagging thought suddenly crossed Artyom’s mind: an aura of a fighter emanated from this man. Perhaps he had served in special forces before. Who knows, maybe he decided to change jobs due to an injury or for personal reasons. On the other hand, he might have just been imagining it.
Settling into the comfortable leather seat, Artyom decided to start a conversation:
“Is everything they say about this hotel really true?”
The driver gave him a brief glance in the rearview mirror:
“Don’t rush things. Allow everything to take its natural course.”
The answer seemed strange, but Artyom didn’t give up:
“Am I the first visitor, or are there others already?”
“There are already eight guests residing at the hotel,” the driver replied shortly and didn’t utter another word.
Artyom felt discouraged. He had hoped for more hospitality, thinking that the hotel needed publicity and they would gladly reveal any secrets and answer all his questions. But he ran into a literal wall that he could neither bypass nor jump over.
Accepting the reality and realizing that things might not be so simple, he grimaced and began to look at the surroundings they were driving past.
The journey took three hours. They didn’t stop anywhere and maintained a stable, high speed permissible in these areas. Surprisingly, although the car was driving on country roads, it didn’t shake. There were no potholes or unevenness that would cause discomfort. Clearly, someone took care of this road—it was wide enough, covered with crushed stone in such a way that no puddles should appear on it in case of bad weather. Water was supposed to drain through the stones into the soil on the shoulders.
At some point, Artyom noticed that they began to climb an elevation, and five minutes later, beautiful decorative metal gates appeared before the car.
The gates were impressive—about four meters high, with elegant wrought-iron patterns resembling intertwined tree branches. Stone columns, topped with stylized figures of forest animals, stood on the sides. Everything looked expensive and tasteful, but something else surprised Artyom—the complete absence of guards.
The driver pressed something on a remote; the gates opened silently, and they drove onto the grounds.
“No one at the entrance?” Artyom couldn’t help but ask.
“Everything is under control,” the driver replied curtly, and Artyom noticed a faint gleam in his interlocutor’s eyes.
Beyond the gates, a view opened up to a well-maintained road framed by tall pine trees. The air smelled of pine needles and something else—fresh, almost mountainous. Artyom involuntarily inhaled deeper. After the city’s stuffiness, it was like a gulp of clean water.
Ahead, he saw a small three-story building, partially hidden behind trees. However, the car drove further, toward the inner gates, where the second checkpoint was located.
A security guard in uniform was already waiting for them here. The driver rolled down the window, and the man politely greeted Artyom:
“Welcome to the ‘Forest Hotel.’ To issue your pass, I will need the code from your booking confirmation.”
Artyom took out his phone and showed the message with the set of numbers. The guard checked the code on a tablet, nodded, and handed over a plastic badge with his name, as well as an electronic key card.
“This is your universal access,” he explained. “Depending on your package level, the card will grant you access to various areas of the hotel: your room, the restaurant, the pool, the spa center, the zoo. Not all guests receive access to all zones—it all depends on the type of ticket purchased.”
Artyom took the card, feeling its pleasant weight. Apparently, his weekly package was quite substantial.
Along with the card, the guard handed him a colorful flyer with basic information for guests. Artyom flipped the badge over and saw a number on the back—obviously, his room. And on the front, he found his own photograph and brief personal data.
This both worried him and, on the other hand, he decided not to bother and accepted it as a pleasant surprise. If the hotel really had such serious connections, why wouldn’t they obtain information about potential clients beforehand? At least he could already assess the level of service awaiting him.
“Can I ask a question,” Artyom addressed the guard. “Is photo and video recording allowed on the premises?”
The guard smiled and pointed to the relevant section on the flyer:
“Filming is permitted everywhere, with the exception of areas marked with special information stands. Where you see such signs, we strongly ask you to refrain from using cameras. This concerns both the privacy of other guests and…” he paused briefly, “certain commercial secrets of the hotel.”
Artyom nodded, mentally noting the mysteriousness of the last phrase. What kind of “secrets” could a forest hotel have?
As the car began to move further into the inner territory, Artyom caught a snatch of a transmission on the guard’s radio. Although he couldn’t make out the words, he noticed the speaker’s worried tone.
Chapter 33
Everyone safely made it to their rooms. They managed to have lunch and walk around the grounds a bit. Nevertheless, no one was planning any big events for that evening. Artyom wasn’t too bothered either—he still had a whole week ahead. He just wanted to unpack his things, prepare his cameras and equipment, and start streaming from this unusual place tomorrow.
The night passed quietly. Everyone calmed down more or less, and by morning, when people started waking up, a commotion was heard in the courtyard. Security guards were running around the territory and loudly relaying something to each other on the radio.
The manager was the first to rush out, and to his utter surprise—no, to his incredible delight!—a tree had blossomed right in the center of the main fountain.
This tree didn’t just blossom. It raised its branches, let out a lush crown, and literally matured in the short time when no one was watching it. Most interestingly, the fountain continued to work. But instead of water, something snow-white rose up the tree trunk, reached the branches, and showered down as a rain of milky drops.
Without a second thought, Komarov splashed into the fountain fully clothed and submerged himself in the milky water, literally swimming in it like a fish.
Gradually, the first guests began to gather at the fountain. The Ivanov family with two children stopped in amazement, watching the swimming manager. An elderly married couple from room 204 sat down on a nearby bench, unable to believe their eyes. Artyom rushed out with his camera and immediately started his stream.
“Guys, you won’t believe it!” he began excitedly. “The hotel manager is swimming in a milk fountain, and a real tree is growing in the center!”
Meanwhile, the family with the little daughter noticed the paths. The tiles lining the walking trails had come to resemble chocolate bars—with the characteristic texture, shape, and color. The father of the family even bent down to smell them, but his wife held him back by the sleeve.
“Daddy, is that really chocolate?” the girl asked.
While one group of people crowded the fountain, cheerful music was heard coming from the direction of the amusement park. Families with children naturally gravitated that way—and also froze in astonishment. Little elephants with wings were riding the merry-go-rounds, clearly enjoying the flight!
“Mommy, look! The little elephant is flying!” one child cried out enthusiastically.
The children immediately joined the fun, and soon they were riding along with their winged companions, while the parents stood nearby, trying to process what was happening.
Artyom rushed to the carousel with his camera:
“The kids are riding with live flying elephants! This is beyond all comprehension!”
At that moment, a fiery creature appeared on a small stage nearby—a genuine elemental who began juggling particles of his own flame. A group of adult guests, less interested in children’s rides, headed for this performance. Tongues of fire danced in the air, creating mesmerizing patterns.
“It’s impossible,” one of the women whispered. “Fire can’t be alive…”
The hotel staff, meanwhile, tried to maintain some semblance of normal work. Waiters served breakfast, pretending nothing unusual was happening, although their eyes occasionally cast nervous glances toward the miracles.
Everyone heard a strong gust of wind, and something closely resembling the silhouette of a European dragon flew high in the sky over the hotel. The group at the fountain looked up; the families at the carousel stopped; even the audience of the fire show was distracted.
“Oh my God!” Artyom exclaimed, pointing his camera at the sky. “A dragon is flying above us!”
Komarov peered out from behind the branches of the milky tree, his eyes shining with delight.
Then a powerful splash was heard in the pool. Some of the guests who were just heading for water treatments froze in place. The water had turned dark blue, like a deep ocean, and a whale surfaced among the waves.
One of the bolder guests couldn’t resist and jumped into the pool but quickly swam back out:
“It’s a real ocean in there! And sharks!”
While half the people crowded the pool and the other half continued to watch the sky dragon, a rustling of branches was heard. A giant octopus clung to the top of one of the tall trees with all its tentacles, swaying from side to side.
At that moment, a small cart with ice cream drawings drove through the park. The children and their winged elephants joyfully ran toward the ice golem vendor, who calmly handed out ice cream and cotton candy, as if nothing unusual was happening.
“Cone or cup?” he politely asked.
Heavy footsteps drew the attention of those remaining near the main building. Two guests rode a hippopotamus wearing goggles, which galloped at the speed of a horse.
“Look out!” the riders shouted, circling the amazed spectators.
Unusual sounds were heard from above. Everyone looked up and saw flying dolphins bathing in the clouds, jumping out and diving back into the air masses.
Artyom darted between all the events, filming everything. Viewers on the stream grew exponentially—first thousands, then tens of thousands, then the counter crossed half a million.
Donations poured down like rain. Messages flew in the chat: “THIS CAN’T BE REAL!”, “ARTYOM, STAY THERE FOREVER!”, “TAKE MY MONEY!”
That same huge dragon landed on the highest spire of the estate. Seven meters tall, ten in wingspan, with red scales and bright green eyes. Absolutely everyone—at the fountain, at the carousel, and at the pool—froze, looking up.
Artyom looked at the recording time—3.5 hours of continuous madness. The manager ran between all the wonders, tears of joy on his face.
“This is the best day of my life!” shouted Komarov, soaked with milk.
“I think I found a place where I want to spend the rest of my life…” Artyom whispered into the camera, looking at the endless stream of donations.
Suddenly, everyone heard a piercing alarm signal over the park’s loudspeakers. The people at the fountain, the families at the carousel, the fire show spectators—everyone froze in astonishment. Even the dragon on the spire raised its head.
And at that moment, the light shut off instantly. Literally with the flick of a switch. The sky went dark; everything instantly plunged into absolute gloom.
Artyom wanted to continue filming, but his fingers would not obey him, as if they no longer belonged to him. He could only hear his own breathing, and only after a few moments could he move his arms and legs. Slowly, it dawned on him—he was lying in the bed he went to sleep in yesterday.
Carefully getting up, he turned on the lamp on the nightstand, though not on the first try. He blinked, squinting at the light, and saw an unusual sight. Now there were two doors in his room—both closed, with no identifying marks.
And so he stands in the empty room, examining both doors, trying to understand—what was the reality: those 3.5 hours of incredible streaming, or the room with two mysterious doors?
Chapter 34
Artyom stood in the middle of the room, trying to process what was happening. His thoughts flitted chaotically, like the flying dolphins in the clouds that he had been filming just minutes ago.
Or was it not minutes ago? Or had he not filmed them at all?
He trembled, thinking about what had been. Was his stream actually broadcast? Did he receive that money? Because all of it could radically change his life. He was literally a star—shining brighter than a supernova, half a million people from all over the world were watching him, admiring him, sending donations…
Until someone turned off the light.
Essentially, they ruined his whole high.
And now, reflecting on it, Artyom felt anger boiling inside him. He had come here precisely for this! To find something unusual, show people, and gain fame. And he got it—he got more than he could ever dream of. And then it was simply taken away from him. Like a toy being taken from a child.
Most of all, he was afraid that reality would turn out not to be what it claimed to be. That those 3.5 hours of incredible content that could have made him rich and famous for life would turn out to be nothing. Just another trick of fate that teases, shows a sweet piece, and then cruelly takes it away.
He ran a hand through his hair, feeling its dampness. Strange—if it was a dream, why was he sweating?
The two doors stood silently before him, like mute witnesses to his torment. Both absolutely identical, with no identifying marks. But he had to choose one of them. Or did he? Did he truly have a choice? Well, he had to at least assess the options.
Artyom finally took a step and decided to check the door on the left first. He approached it, carefully and slowly turned the handle, opened it a crack, and peered into the slit between the door and the frame.
Nothing unusual happened. He saw the bright sun, the blue sky, the street. He heard music and the sounds of animals. He opened the door wider and realized that behind it was all the experience he had just lived through. With a surge, he started to move forward but stopped at some point.
He was unsure whether he should. Because if this reality had already betrayed him once, would it betray him again?
And suddenly, he began to feel something was wrong. There wasn’t a single person outside. Everything was working, everything was moving, everything was playing, but there was no one. And the very feeling of this gave him the chills—he felt a coldness emanating from that side.
Therefore, rethinking it once more, he closed that door. In his heart, he felt great regret—maybe he was missing a chance, maybe this time everything would have been different. Nevertheless, he wanted to know what was behind the second door.
He approached the second door and also slowly, carefully opened it a crack. It was quite dark behind this door. He didn’t immediately understand what was happening there. So he opened it a bit wider and saw a window through which the first rays of the sun were filtering. They slightly penetrated inside, gradually enhancing the effect of object detection in the darkness.
But he was shocked by the fact that he was seeing himself in his room, in his suite, lying in bed, literally asleep. The situation was that he was experiencing a kind of doubling. He was sleeping there; here, he was standing, experiencing complex emotions.
Deciding that a bird in the hand was more acceptable than two in the bush, he sadly entered the room where his sleeping body lay.
And at that moment, he opened his eyes and saw himself in the same bed, but now there was no one around him but himself. And there was only one door in the room. He saw light coming from outside.
He got up and looked out the window. Nothing that had happened before was occurring outside. Guards occasionally walked by, but there was no commotion, no music, no special effects.
His legs turned to cotton. He rushed to his camera, opened it, checked the recordings, and regretfully found none of what he had recorded or streamed. It had all been a lie.
On the one hand, he regretted that it hadn’t been real. On the other hand, the emotions he had experienced remained with him. Even if others didn’t see it, he did. And he already understood that the time he had spent to come here was worth it.
After a while, Artyom went outside and saw other guests leaving with their families. At that moment, he realized that he saw subdued spirits in every visitor. All the people were leaving, looking around as if searching for something. Children were crying—they wanted to return to where their parents had pulled them from. But there was nowhere to return to.
And just as people were gradually coming to their senses, returning to reality, several guards suddenly ran past them in the direction of the main building. This slightly alarmed everyone who saw it. However, the hotel loudspeakers were silent; there were no alarms. Perhaps there was a situation they didn’t know about. And perhaps they wouldn’t want to know. It was internal hotel business—something with security or a malfunction. And they just wanted to get their quiet lives back.
At the same time, far from the hotel, in the city office, the developer Gromov sat at his desk and opened his email. One of the letters contained information that some anomalies had been recorded at the hotel, problems with people’s sleep. However, besides the fact that something strange had happened, there was also one victim.
Gromov read that the hotel manager had not woken up. He remained in his bed, his clothes completely wet, as was the bed he was in. However, he never regained consciousness—his brain had essentially shut down. His brain was no longer functioning; the manager was in a vegetative state.
He was, of course, evacuated without causing panic. A helicopter was sent to a landing spot that was inaccessible to guests—the area was closed to visitors. Komarov was taken to the hospital, but doctors confirmed that the brain could no longer be helped.
The manager was the only person who confidently stepped through the first door on the left, forever remaining in a place that became a sanctuary for him, where he felt at home. This place was filled with what gave meaning to his life.
Chapter 35
Several days passed after that memorable morning with the “miracles,” and new families arrived at the hotel. Life gradually settled into a quiet routine—guests ate breakfast, walked the grounds, used the spa services, and no one spoke anymore of flying elephants or dragons. It was as if everyone had silently agreed to forget what had happened.
Nineteen-year-old Maxim was strolling along the hotel paths when he noticed a black SUV pull up to the main entrance of their building. A family emerged from the car—middle-aged parents and a slender girl about his age. She was tastefully dressed, carried herself with dignity, and her movements suggested a familiarity with luxury.
Their eyes met for a few seconds. Maxim managed to notice her beautiful eyes and sculpted features, and the girl, in turn, gave his figure an evaluating glance. However, the obvious arrogance in her look immediately killed any desire he had to initiate contact. She, apparently, felt the same—she turned away contemptuously and followed her parents into the building.
“Another spoiled…” Maxim muttered, putting his hands in his pockets. He disliked that temperament.
The girl’s family headed toward the elevators with their luggage—it seemed they were assigned rooms on the second floor, in the left wing. Maxim watched them and returned to his walk. His own family had settled on the third floor in the right wing of the same building.
Throughout the day, several more families arrived at the hotel. A cheerful couple with two small children settled in the adjacent building—the kids immediately ran off to explore the playground, and the parents settled down with relief in the restaurant. An elderly, elegant lady with her teenage grandson took a suite on the fourth floor. Another middle-aged family arrived clearly to celebrate an anniversary—they kept hugging and taking selfies in front of the fountain.
Gradually, the hotel filled with voices, children’s laughter, and the measured conversations of adults. The grounds came alive—some were swimming in the pool, some were playing tennis, and some were simply enjoying the evening air on the terraces.
Nothing interesting happened until the evening. Maxim saw the girl a couple of times—once in the restaurant at a neighboring table, once on the terrace with a book—but their eyes never met again. She diligently ignored him, and he pretended not to notice her.
During the evening turn-down service, all the guests retired to their rooms to rest after a busy day. The hotel was immersed in quiet silence, broken only by the sound of the wind in the treetops and the distant splash of water in the fountain.
The bright sky, saturated with sunlight, blinded Maxim, causing him to raise a hand to shield his eyes. He felt a mask on his face. He was under the wing of a hang glider—a device that allows gliding but has no engine. Like a horizontal parachute with a person suspended underneath.
Maxim, like an experienced cloud surfer, slid left, then right, then up, then down, experiencing incredible pleasure. He had dreamed of this experience his whole life, but his fear of heights always constrained his intentions to pay for even a test flight with an experienced pilot. But now he felt neither the pressure of height nor an excessive gust of wind—the mask protected him, and he could breathe without problems.
Moreover, he could use wind magic to accelerate or slow down. He didn’t know where he got this magic from, but the sheer feeling of freedom he had in the sky inspired him more than the grades he received at the university, where he was among the top ten students.
Flying over a field, he suddenly noticed some kind of estate below. But most of all, his eyes lit up when he saw an open gazebo and two young girls sitting there.
Maxim confidently headed toward his goal. He used wind magic to carefully descend to the ground and land not far from the gazebo, but a nuance arose—the guy had no idea how to brake. So he tried to direct the wind back and forth. Gliding in the sky was easy—it was open and free, but how to land on the ground?
His speed was very high; Maxim kept flying past the gazebo, alarming the girls inside. On the seventh attempt, he somehow managed to dive so that his speed decreased to an acceptable level. Then he touched the ground.
However, because he was attached to the hang glider, he couldn’t orient himself in time and flew into the nearby bushes along with his flying apparatus.
Five minutes before this, Irina had fallen asleep in her bed at the hotel. When she opened her eyes, she noticed she was in some kind of area—rural or urban—but the buildings confused her. They were made of stone and clearly resembled film sets.
Observing her clothes, she was shocked to discover that no one wore such dresses in modern times. She would have been completely comfortable taking off this entire “parachute” and walking around in a regular tank top and shorts. However, she couldn’t undress right there, because such a voluminous dress could only be removed with the help of maids.
Then she realized someone was next to her.
A maid addressed her:
“Is everything alright, young lady? You are suddenly acting strangely. It feels as if you are panicking for no reason. Perhaps something is wrong with your health? Do you need urgent assistance?”
However, Irina didn’t react to her. She was trying to understand the situation she was in, looking at the girl with obvious questions in her eyes, when she suddenly remembered a name—Kristina. She didn’t understand where this name came from in her memory. Nevertheless, “Kristina” combined very easily with the girl’s face in her recollections.
At that moment, she heard a noise in the sky and, turning her head, saw something flying toward their gazebo. This stunned not only her but also the maid. They had never seen anything like it, or perhaps so it seemed.
Nevertheless, they watched in shock as something approached from the sky, and Irina suddenly realized it was the shape of a hang glider with a person inside, controlling it and flying in their direction.
Yes, it wasn’t a metallic hull that could crash into the gazebo and smash it, but she absolutely didn’t want to test on her own skin what it was like to meet a hang glider flying at her at such a speed.
The maid panicked:
“Young lady, we should leave! Something strange is happening!”
She began to panic, and at that moment, she saw that the glider changed direction and flew ten meters past them, which was quite creepy but still didn’t affect them. Taking a breath, she tried to relax, when she realized he was not giving up and was coming in for a new dive. A multitude of strange thoughts popped into her head, but the apparatus flew past again.
This happened six times. It was starting to get stressful. The maid was literally tugging at the girl to leave the area and go to the gates of the estate where the guards were.
And at that moment, something happened that shocked them even more. Now the apparatus was not going to swerve; it was flying clearly in the direction of their gazebo. They clearly felt that the speed had become less dangerous; perhaps the person had finally taken control of the situation. Although the maid was still panicking, Irina relaxed slightly, but the landing scene was so comical to her that she could barely hold back her laughter.
However, when she saw the man getting up and walking toward them with unknown intentions, understanding the delicacy of the situation, she immediately rose and tried to leave the area as quickly as possible. But she had no idea how to manage that entire dress. And the shoes she was currently wearing were not what she was used to.
Consequently, as she tried to walk away, she forgot to lift the front of her dress and tripped over the hem that dropped to her feet. Coupled with the uncomfortable shoes, this led to a painful fall.
Maxim somehow climbed out of the bushes, maintaining the most satisfied look, as if he had planned it—just decided to make the girls laugh. However, internally, he felt overwhelming embarrassment because he might be laughed at.
Observing the sitting girls, he suddenly noted that one was sitting while the other was standing next to her. And the girl who was standing nearby had her head bowed. He immediately sensed a similarity to what he had read in children’s fairy tales, where some noble lady had servants, and this servant had been a maid to the young lady since childhood.
Meanwhile, while Irina felt incredible shame and humiliation, the young man was still moving toward them, but now a certain anxiety appeared on his face. Because Irina’s face was covered by a veil and the guy’s by a mask, they had no idea who was in front of them. Nevertheless, each of them, believing that this was not reality, decided to play along with the unexpected scenario a little.
At this time, the maid saw several guards running toward them and felt a little relief.
However, a couple of moments later, they heard a new noise from the forest. A cart emerged from behind the trees, heading straight for them. Moreover, the people driving the cart looked exactly like bandits. Someone from the cart started shooting a bow and arrow at the guards, wounding half of them but failing to kill anyone. Thus, only half of the guards reached the girl and her maid.
Maxim tried to run up to Irina, but the maid, Kristina, stood between them, ready to fight to the end to prevent anyone from reaching Irina. Maxim watched this somewhat stunned—how strange for a dream, why all the complications? He noticed shooting from the cart at the running guards, saw all the cruelty of what was happening, and understood that this was going to be cool!
When the guards reached Irina, they sent the maid to help the girl, and they themselves blocked the road. None of them understood who Maxim was. On the other hand, he had neither a weapon nor clothes that looked like the local bandits’ attire—they resembled aristocrats’ clothing more. They lowered their guard regarding Maxim but did not completely lose sight of him, focusing more on the approaching cart.
Now the cart had approached close enough, and several people jumped out of it, and it was immediately clear that their number exceeded that of the guards. The archer was still near the cart and could shoot arrows from there. However, he did not target the guards who were closer to Irina, as he might accidentally hit the target they were ordered to kidnap.
Maxim felt like he was in some amazing video game and watching this cutscene that didn’t require his participation. He simply watched the action unfold from the side, so as not to accidentally become a victim of the attack himself. Therefore, he was in no hurry to interfere, just watching the events so as not to accidentally become a victim of this attack himself.
The situation ended with the guards being partially killed or wounded and unable to continue fighting. So two bandits dragged the screaming Irina—because of the problem with her leg, it was very difficult for her when she was constantly being pulled. Nevertheless, two carried her. Kristina followed them—she understood that she could not leave Irina alone, despite the danger to her life. On the other hand, if she returned to the fortress without the girl, she would most likely be executed by the masters themselves.
When the bandits assessed Maxim’s appearance, a gleam appeared in their eyes—perhaps another target from which they could earn money.
However, Maxim had no understanding of open combat—moreover, it was his personal decision to land there, finding trouble for himself. And now, as armed bandits approached him, he was lost and didn’t even know what to do.
He tried to recall knowledge of wind magic and other sciences that he seemed to possess in this life. But everything was muddled in his head, and nothing useful came to mind. On the other hand, what he saw—the guards writhing in pain—all of it killed any desire he had to even try to resist.
The three of them were loaded into the cart, and when all the bandits were inside, they noticed a large group of soldiers emerging from the estate. However, the distance of two hundred meters gave them a very powerful advantage, which they clearly did not intend to relinquish.
Chapter 36
The first thing that struck them in captivity was how clearly they felt every detail of what was happening. The pain from their bruises pulsed genuinely and annoyingly, the hard bottom of the cart dug into their backs with every bump, and the smells of unwashed bodies and sour sweat made them cringe with disgust. This was not the comfortable dream where discomforts glide past consciousness.
The clatter of the horses’ hooves echoed in their temples with a steady rhythm, the creak of the wooden planks beneath their bodies sounded piercingly, and the metallic clang of the harness and weapons created a cacophony that made them want to cover their ears. The bandits’ breaths reeked of rotten teeth and cheap alcohol. This was no longer a dream—it had turned into a nightmare.
The bandits chatted happily among themselves, anticipating their reward. Irina tried to lift her dress to examine her injured leg but instantly froze under the greedy stares of the thugs. Their eyes glowed with an unhealthy interest, and the girl hastily lowered her hem, feeling a chill of horror. She began to realize that the kidnapping was only the beginning of her troubles.
Maxim lay nearby, watching Kristina. The modest, frightened, but surprisingly conscientious young girl aroused a feeling in him that he had never experienced before. Something warm and protective, a desire to shield her from all harm. If not for her age, which clearly wasn’t even sixteen, he would…
The cart jumped on an especially large bump, and Maxim painfully hit his head on the wooden floor. The pain instantly snapped him back to his senses. What was he thinking about? They were in mortal danger, and he was contemplating romantic feelings!
The journey took about two hours. Irina, despite her fear, continued to analyze the situation. The cart traveled at a speed of thirty to thirty-five kilometers per hour on difficult sections and accelerated to forty to forty-five on straightaways. The pair of purebred horses pulling them were clearly pampered and cherished—their well-groomed appearance made it clear that the bandits cared for them more than for their own lives. In two hours, they covered more than fifty kilometers, and hopes for a quick rescue became faint.
The camp where they were brought was located deep within the forest. When the cart entered the shade of the trees, several waiting bandits carefully swept away the traces of wheels and hooves. The place was chosen to be inconspicuous—no one would find them here by accident. It was not a temporary refuge for robbers but a real lair with permanent infrastructure. In neighboring cells, other unfortunates languished—meaning that kidnapping people here was routine.
Maxim was thrown into a cell with some man, while Irina and Kristina were given a separate room.
Kristina immediately began examining Irina’s leg. The single guard was busy with a fried leg of some animal and alcohol. The smell of meat was so delightful that Maxim involuntarily thought about what spices the bandits might have used, before striking himself on the forehead. His cellmate fearfully recoiled from the sudden gesture.
Irina felt sweat break out on her face from the pain in her leg. She didn’t even notice when Kristina touched her. Only Maxim’s inquiring eyes caught a barely discernible glow beneath the girl’s dress when the maid removed Irina’s shoe and began gently rubbing the bruise.
The food they were brought would have been unpleasant to give even to dogs. But the other prisoners silently started their meal, neither wrinkling their noses nor complaining. An iron law prevailed here: if you don’t want to eat, you might become ballast, and ballast is disposed of. No one needs a barely alive prisoner who isn’t worth much.
Maxim forced himself to swallow the disgusting gruel, understanding the necessity of maintaining strength. Kristina ate without visible problems—perhaps hunger was nothing new to her. And Irina, feeling a slight surge of energy and the pain receding in her leg, simply fell asleep on the makeshift bed of hay.
The next morning, a commotion arose in the camp. Even their guard ran out, drawn by the noise. Soon, a crowd entered the cave, led by a powerful man who made it clear who was in charge. The other bandits literally groveled before him.
The leader carefully examined the awakened Irina and nodded in satisfaction, handing over a clinking pouch of coins for a job well done. Then his gaze fell upon Maxim, and genuine surprise flashed in his eyes. The prisoner’s clothes were unlike anything he had dealt with before.
“Remove their masks,” he commanded.
When Kristina tried to shield her mistress, the leader impatiently growled and pointed at one of his henchmen:
“Get rid of her. Just don’t ‘damage the goods’”.
A minute later, all the masks were torn off, and Kristina was forcibly dragged out of the cage in tears. They never saw her again.
The realization that the innocent girl was dead crashed down on Maxim and Irina like a thunderclap. The ground seemed to give way beneath them, and they fell into an abyss of despair. This was no longer a game or an adventure—people truly died here.
The leader nodded in satisfaction and left the cave, leaving them alone with their horror.
Chapter 37
Neither of them could sleep that night. The bandits feasted until late, but the noise was not the only issue. The stress from losing Kristina and the realization of the reality of what was happening gave them no peace.
Maxim found the strength to approach the partition between the cages and quietly address Irina:
“How are you doing?”
Irina, choosing the lesser of two evils, decided to answer. But when their eyes met for the first time without masks, words caught in both their throats. The same thought hit them like a gong: “What the hell are you doing in my dream?”
“I… ahem, you…” Irina didn’t know what to say. She didn’t even know his name—how could the dream know it? Could it be that her subconscious chose this guy only because she had met his gaze in reality and he caught her eye? Was this a protective reaction of the psyche?
Maxim thought to himself: “Of course, I’m glad to see a familiar face, but I wish Kristina were here instead. At least then it wouldn’t hurt so much.” Nevertheless, he was ready to accept this unreal reality and move on.
“Maxim,” the guy said, extending a slightly trembling hand.
The girl didn’t know why, but she felt blood rush to her face, and it flushed. She quickly turned away, but forced out:
“Ira.”
Maxim didn’t insist on continuing the acquaintance. He understood that his pain might be fleeting compared to what the girl was experiencing, having lost her lifelong companion. He turned his back to her, leaned against the partition, and closed his eyes.
“Any ideas how we’re going to get out?” he asked quietly.
Maxim remembered he wasn’t alone in the cage, but his cellmate was staring into the void with glassy eyes. Obviously, he had been there for a long time, and no one wanted to pay the ransom for his life. Nevertheless, the man did not look physically exhausted—the “goods” were maintained in proper condition.
Gazing into those empty eyes, Maxim realized with horror that he was seeing the mirror of his future if he wasn’t ransomed. But who could ransom him? He knew no one in this world and didn’t even remember where he came from.
Strangely, this realization didn’t depress him. On the contrary, he felt he had to become the master of his own fate, not a passive observer of events. Maxim began to analyze the logic of this world. There was no visible technological superiority here. Even his seamless flight suit could look like skin, not clothes, in the eyes of the bandits. He quickly discarded this alarming thought.
Wind magic. He had used it somehow but completely failed to understand the mechanism. He simply flew, as one flies in a dream.
Maxim imagined throwing something at the wall. He raised his arm and made a throwing motion. At that moment, he felt his palm sense something with volume that slightly resisted movement. It was as if the air had condensed in his hand so he could give it an exact direction. Maxim released the invisible projectile, and it continued moving until it reached the wall and burst like a soap bubble upon contact with the stone.
At that moment, he felt someone’s watchful gaze upon him.
Looking up, he saw Irina staring at him intently. She wanted to stretch her legs to check the state of her injury, and Maxim was so immersed in his experiments that he hadn’t heard her movements.
Understanding that there was no other way to explain it, Maxim simply said:
“I’m just learning for now. Don’t expect much.”
Irina swallowed and shook her head from side to side, embarrassed, as if she had caught him doing something very personal. Her heart skipped a beat—only now did she feel they had a chance. No need to say that it was all just a farce!
“But how?” an interested gleam lit up in the girl’s eyes.
Maxim was embarrassed by her reaction. Did she really not care that her maid had been killed? Was she so heartless? No, perhaps it was just stress, a desire to survive… He wouldn’t judge her. Maybe this was what was keeping her mind from madness.
“I don’t know how to explain it,” the guy awkwardly tried to excuse himself.
“You just imagine a form in your head, and then channel energy through your arm, like through a conduit, to create magic,” the hoarse voice of his cellmate suddenly sounded.
Four eyes turned to the lying man. He was still staring into the void, but suddenly he raised his hand and began moving his fingers, as if pressing invisible buttons. A pleasant melody sounded from beneath his palm, instantly captivating both young people.
They felt light, as if they had found the meaning of life. The Dark Universe opened its eyes and gifted them with the light of its treasury. Maxim and Irina drowned in this melody until a deafening bang of a hammer on the cage bars brought them back to reality.
“Everyone sleep, or you will be punished!” the guard roared, clearly displeased that he had been woken up.
When the guard left, the dialogue continued.
“I am a minstrel. They call me The Color of Life, but I don’t remember my name,” the man said and began to cough.
Maxim and Irina involuntarily nodded—they subconsciously approved of this nickname. If such a person appeared in their world, he would instantly become a megastar and very rich.
Irina closed her eyes and tried to imagine a fireball, a water sphere, an air balloon, a stone bullet. None of this resonated in her heart, as if mocking her helplessness.
She was so upset that she distinctly felt a pulsation in her head. A wave of heat rolled through her body, but she herself was trembling. Why was she kidnapped? What was so valuable about her? Irina couldn’t help but start doubting—what if they actually wanted Kristina? At least she did something that completely made the discomfort from the bruise disappear.
If the bandits really made a mistake, doesn’t that mean she will simply be killed if no one pays for her? But she knew no one in this world. Who needs her here?
The possibility of such a sad fate so enraged her that the girl began to panic. The trembling did not subside; it only intensified. At some point, Irina thought she had caught an infection—her condition was far from normal. She unsuccessfully tried to compose herself, but the trembling was getting out of control.
Suddenly, something painfully stung the palm she was leaning on. The girl immediately looked at her hand and saw a dark spot there, although the skin was unharmed.
Irina unconsciously moved her arm away from herself and directed it toward the wall, expecting something. But nothing happened.
The Color of Life rose from his spot and blossomed into a smile:
“So, it is you… If you can’t imagine a form, just direct the pure energy from your body through your arm. Our bodies absorb energy from outside on their own, but it doesn’t accumulate; it dissipates over time if it’s not used.”
At that moment, a click of the lock was heard, and they saw a guard with clearly unhealthy intentions enter Irina’s cage.
“If you don’t want to sleep, then keep me company…”
Chapter 38
Every step of that bandit was reflected by a tremor throughout Irina’s body. She understood that fending him off in such attire would be quite difficult. And, when less than four steps remained between them, she unconsciously raised her arm toward the bandit, overwhelmed with negative emotions. The captive girl was not born into this world of fantasy; she was neither subservient nor broken. Her family’s wealth had not only made Irina arrogant but also gave her an understanding of authority and access to knowledge.
Outwardly, the prisoner did not look shocked, but rather bewildered by her helplessness. She believed that she was not in danger in reality, so she was able to gather her will and was ready to act. Her behavior surprised the bandit, although the audacity in the eyes of the opposite sex further stirred his desire to humiliate and trample the remnants of his victim’s pride.
But everything did not go according to his plan. At that moment, he felt energy beginning to condense in the cage, causing his legs to buckle. He had only experienced something similar once, when they broke into the tower of an important mage and then, suffering a humiliating defeat from just one old man, could only ransom their lives while listening to the servants of the building’s owner mock them. The servants looked at the cluster of bound bandits with undisguised contempt, as if they were idiots.
A flash! A violet lightning bolt burst from Irina’s hand, passing through the bandit and scattering sparks on the metal bars of her cage. Everyone felt the smell of burned skin, and the bandit, with wide eyes full of fear, fell before the girl. The healthy man seemed to have been thrown by a giant, flying out of the cage and instantly freezing with an expression of disbelief and horror, sprawled on the stone wall of the passage outside the cage. His lifeless eyes continued to stare at the remaining fragile girl, whose gaze was equally surprised.
When this happened, everyone froze in anticipation, but nothing more occurred. Irina was able to cautiously extract the key from the dead bandit’s hand. Since her cage was open, she was able to leave it without any problems. Moreover, to exert more pressure on the camp’s masters, she quickly walked through the territory of this prison. All the cages opened with a single key, so it was not difficult for her to unlock all the doors, allowing everyone inside to gain freedom.
The Color of Life laughed even louder, and the words rang out: “How beautiful—the true awakening of power! This is wonderful!” He looked at his cellmate and said, “You have excellent compatibility, a good tandem. Shall we create a little commotion?” The minstrel’s eyes filled with a mysterious gleam. Maxim suddenly realized that the man was definitely not an ordinary vagrant with tearful stories. Looking closer, he could now see that the man’s clothing, although quite worn and stained, was very high-quality and looked quite expensive.
After some time, all around the forest where the bandits’ lair was located, lightning strikes and a terrifying hurricane were heard from the sky. The bandits couldn’t understand where this bad weather came from. They were terrified, because the fierce gusts of wind and lightning did not cease. And only the bandit leader realized what had happened.
His heart skipped a beat at the realization that the girl had awakened. Only he knew what abilities she was supposed to inherit from her ancestors, specifically from her grandmother. And, thinking again, he decided it wasn’t worth it, ordered everyone to reinforce the camp’s defenses, and meanwhile, saddled the fastest horse and rode off in an unknown direction.
While the lightning thundered, the Color of Life added his part to this performance, filling the entire lair with his music, which drove the bandits into chaos. They heard this music, but the fear from the awakened nature, the catastrophic power that was reflected in their eyes with horror—all of this turned into chaos in their hearts. They could not gather themselves, focus, and none of the bandits could even assume that something like this was coming from some prisoners, so they ran through the forest searching for attackers.
Half an hour later, when the extreme concert was over, noise and shouts were heard outside—it was a battle of swords against swords, swords against shields, and bows. People were heard dying in agony. After a short time, a man in full gear burst into the cave, followed by several accompanying warriors in lighter armor.
They saw Irina and felt immense relief. Their master’s daughter looked healthy and unharmed. Although her maid was not beside her, they were not greatly concerned about it. They arrived here when they learned of what was happening. They couldn’t find the bandits’ lair for a long time, but the phenomenon in the sky became the beacon that put an end to their search.
Both Irina and Maxim woke up in reality, still trying to process what they had just experienced. Nevertheless, their hearts would no longer doubt—the arrogance was gone from their eyes, replaced by an unusually warm feeling. They were very surprised when they learned that only one night had passed, although they had spent much more time in the other “world”. Later, at breakfast, their gazes no longer evoked contempt for each other; there was an subtle gleam, the meaning of which only their hearts knew.
Chapter 39
Artyom found the strength to return to his duties as a streamer—otherwise, he truly might have been forced to pay for this vacation out of his own pocket. The disappointment from the “false” epic stream still burned inside, but bills didn’t wait. Now he was forced to observe and talk about the ordinary life of the forest hotel, hoping to squeeze at least some content out of the place.
He recorded a simple video—a tour of the grounds, an interview with a couple of guests, and footage of breakfast in the restaurant. Nothing supernatural, just documentation of a holiday at an expensive resort. When he posted the clip on the forum, his old acquaintances responded quite quickly.
🌊 Unearthly Rain:
Dude, you look tired after that epic with the dragons 😄
🔥 Furious Hater:
Where is the promised mystique? You’re showing a regular hotel! Scammer!
🫃 Grumbling Stomach:
Wait, what is that shadow at the 93rd second???
😏 Mocking Smile:
@Grumbling Stomach what shadow, what are you smoking?
🫃 Grumbling Stomach:
Guys, seriously! 1:33 – shock content, is that an editing artifact, a glitch, or…?
🪬 Toxic_Analyst:
Zoomed in on the fragment. It’s not pareidolia. You can clearly see the silhouette of a person.
🌈 Phantom Laughter:
Guys, you’re scaring me. I rewatched it ten times—there really is someone standing there! He even has his own shadow on the wall!!!
Artyom checked the indicated time several times. Indeed, at the 93rd second, when he was filming himself against the backdrop of his room with the camera on a tripod, an unclear image of a person with a distorted, almost disfigured face appeared in the frame. The image was in the frame for only half a second, but that was enough for the viewers to notice the anomaly.
🐳 Skeptic_2024:
Pure fake for hype. AfterEffects editing.
🔪 Sharp Tongue:
@Sly Fox, don’t go back into the room! This is a serious warning!
👻 Paranormal_Hunter:
Buddy, this is a goldmine! I’m already gathering a team, send directions on how to get there. We’ll sort out the payment, we have a cool company!
🤦♂️ Truth_in_Wine:
Lol, money down the drain 😂 The happiness of gullible idiots! Another “professional” fell for the fake.
The comments multiplied, and Artyom understood the main thing—this was not terror, but opportunity. A real anomaly, captured on video! He immediately unpacked several cameras with motion detection and infrared capabilities. If the hotel truly held secrets, he would definitely find them and become rich.
While Artyom was turning his room into a paranormal observation center, hotel life was proceeding as usual. In the manager’s absence, Andrey Anatolyevich Chereshkov—Komarov’s assistant, who had been working there since the opening—was handling affairs.
He was a man in his mid-forties, with piercing gray eyes and an always impeccably pressed suit. He knew every corner of the hotel, remembered the preferences of regular clients, and could solve any problem with unflappable calm. Andrey not only knew about the unusual nature of this place—he accepted it as a given. Moreover, observing how the hotel affected people gave him a special, almost intellectual pleasure. He was like a scientist studying the behavior of test subjects, only his laboratory was located among firs and pines.
New guests continued to arrive. The Petrov family from Moscow—an elderly couple with an adult daughter who brought her parents “to breathe clean air.” Newlyweds Sergey and Marina, who chose the hotel for a romantic trip. Businessman Oleg Viktorovich, tired of the city bustle and deciding to spend two weeks here completely disconnected from work problems.
All of them noted the special atmosphere of the place. The vintage wooden staircases, carved by local craftsmen, evoked admiration for their beauty and craftsmanship. Guests stopped on the landings between floors, photographed the intricate patterns of the railings, and inhaled the natural aroma of the wood.
“Amazing,” said the businessman’s wife, who came to visit her husband for the weekend. “No air fresheners, yet it smells so pleasant. Like at my grandmother’s village house in childhood.”
“Only natural materials are used here,” the staff explained. “All the furniture, all the finishing elements—are from trees that grew right on this territory.”
Indeed, the scent was special. The warm, enveloping aroma of old wood mixed with pine notes and something else—elusive, ancient, as if the forest itself was sharing its secrets with everyone who dared to enter its domain.
The staff worked smoothly, despite the absence of a supervisor. Maids maintained impeccable cleanliness in the rooms, chefs delighted guests with exquisite dishes, and waiters were polite and attentive. Andrey Anatolyevich coordinated all this activity with quiet competence, staying in the shadows but controlling every detail.
On Wednesday morning, a black taxi pulled up to the main entrance. A man about thirty-eight years old got out of the car—tall, fit, in a dark blue suit and with a leather briefcase in his hand. His movements betrayed a military bearing, and his attentive gaze spoke of a habit of noticing details.
Denis Konstantinovich Krakin—the new hotel manager, another assistant to Gromov from his extensive network of contacts. He surveyed the territory with a professional eye, noting the well-kept lawns, the clean paths, and the general condition of the buildings.
Andrey Anatolyevich met him in the lobby of the main building.
“Welcome to the ‘Forest Hotel’,” he said, extending his hand. “Andrey Chereshkov, acting manager.”
“Denis Krakin. Thank you for your work during the transition period.”
“You’re welcome. I hope you settle in quickly. The place is special.”
A subtle note sounded in Andrey Anatolyevich’s voice that Denis could not interpret. Something between pride and… a warning?
They toured the grounds—Andrey showed the key facilities, talked about the operating hours, and introduced the staff. Denis asked professional questions about room occupancy, financial indicators, and development plans. Everything looked exemplary.
“You have impressive results,” the new manager noted, reviewing the reports. “High guest ratings, stable profit, no serious complaints.”
“Guests remain satisfied,” Andrey agreed with a slight smile. “The place is conducive to… deep rest.”
That strange intonation again. Denis decided not to focus on it for now.
By evening, they completed the formal handover procedure. In the manager’s office, located on the second floor of the administrative building, Andrey Anatolyevich opened the safe and took out a thick folder of documents.
“Here is all the main documentation,” he said, placing the folder on the desk. “Contracts with suppliers, event plans, employee personnel files. Pay special attention to the section ‘Service Peculiarities’—it describes some… nuances of working with guests.”
Denis nodded, accepting the folder. Andrey took a set of keys from his pocket and solemnly handed him the main office key—an old-fashioned, massive key, clearly custom-made specifically for this hotel.
“I will be glad to work with you, Denis Konstantinovich,” Andrey said, and cheerful sparks danced in his eyes. “I am sure you will like it here. This place… changes people for the better.”
Denis took the key, feeling its unexpected weight and the warmth of the metal. Andrey Anatolyevich stood opposite him, a look of a man who knew something very interesting and was eagerly awaiting the turn of events frozen on his face.
His gaze was full of anticipation.
Chapter 40
Gunfire. The sound of explosions somewhere in the distance. Sergey was falling from the heavens, rapidly approaching the ground. The sky was covered with heavy clouds; at times, there was a gusty cold wind that pierced him to the bone through all layers of his protective clothing. Flashes of light occurred somewhere to the side, and a transparent dome opened above the falling people, but he saw no parachute lines.
“How can this be…?” he whispered into the helmet.
“Open the parachute, do you want to die? Don’t be a hero!” a sharp and angry voice sounded in his ear.
Sergey watched the approaching earth and, feeling his throat dry up, touched his ear. There was a small earphone, tightly covering his entire ear. At the top, it was attached to a black tactical helmet. A protective mask covered his eyes, so the gusty wind did not prevent him from examining the details of what was happening below.
At some point, the reality of what was happening struck him like lightning. He was indeed falling down. This no longer seemed like a dream or fantasy. His heart pounded wildly in his chest, echoing with dull thuds in his temples, and his palms sweated inside the tactical gloves. The wind at such speed literally tore the breath from his lungs.
“What the…?!” Sergey fussed, frantically inspecting his gear, when suddenly, a flame burst out from somewhere far away and engulfed one of the parachutists.
This flame seemed like a living creature. It rose from the ground’s surface as a red-hot orange sphere, emitting a low hum and crackling, like an overloaded power line, but when it reached its target, a dazzling explosion occurred. The man and his parachute instantly turned into a torch, illuminating the gray sky with a dreadful light. Cries of pain were heard even through the wind’s howl.
Sergey noticed how two more lethal spheres rose from the ground’s surface and struck other falling soldiers with frightening accuracy. The fireballs did not move in a ballistic trajectory but seemed to be controlled by someone’s will, adjusting their path in the air. As they flew past other soldiers, the air shuddered with vibration, and a high-pitched sound began to ring in his ears.
The young man realized with horror that he had no idea how to open the parachute. Panic fear gripped his throat—to burn alive in the air or crash into the ground? Which death was scarier? He desperately did not want either outcome.
A persistent thought pulsed in his head: he clearly remembered lying in the soft bed next to Marina, how she gently pressed against his shoulder, how he closed his eyes in the warm hotel room… And then—nothing. And now he was here, in this nightmare. How awkward it would be to look his young wife in the eye afterward if he miraculously survived this madness.
“What the hell are you doing up there?!” someone was screaming hysterically in the earphone, the voice trembling with rage and despair.
Judging by the quality of the connection and the absence of fighting sounds in the background, the speaker was in a safe headquarters somewhere, but was somehow observing each of them in real-time. Sergey felt blood rush to his face—he was letting everyone down with his inexperience.
Looking down, he saw a small device on his wrist, resembling a sports watch, but much more complex. A map of the area with moving dots was displayed on it. No, wait—the image was not on the device screen but was projected directly onto the inner surface of his protective goggles.
Blue and brown dots blinked on the map. The number of blue ones was rapidly decreasing—his comrades were dying one after another. In the upper right corner, numbers changed quickly. It was probably an advanced military development with augmented reality, Sergey thought, since he was receiving so much important tactical information in real-time.
But the thought that he was completely out of place here gave him no peace. How did he end up among professional military personnel? His gray jumpsuit with green stripes looked just like the others. On his chest, he noticed a patch—a circle with a design resembling an umbrella.
An umbrella! A parachute! Lord, how could he be so stupid?! He wanted to hit himself on the forehead, but his hands were trembling with adrenaline.
At that moment, two more fiery spheres broke away from the surface and shot upwards. The targets were clearly above his position, so the deadly projectiles only narrowly missed him in flight. Nevertheless, the heat from the spheres flying past caused his skin to break out in a cold sweat—the energy was so powerful that the air vibrated, and an unpleasant hum grew in his ears.
His parents were quite wealthy—his father owned several factories, and his mother managed a chain of elite restaurants. Sergey had never even thought about undergoing military training or service. Why, when he had money, connections, and the ability to buy his way out of any problem?
Instead, he spent time with friends in virtual worlds, where they fought in 5 vs 5 intellectual shooters or spent hours clearing complex dungeons in MMO games. There, he was an experienced strategist, knew all the tactics, and could coordinate team actions… But there was no respawn button here.
Concerned about the lack of prospects for their only son, his parents arranged a meeting for him with Marina—a modest girl from a middle-class family. They were not poor; her father was an engineer, and her mother taught at a university, but they were far from Sergey’s family’s wealth. Marina was the third child in her family, and Sergey remained the sole heir to his parents’ empire.
The girl was seriously interested in science—medicine and biology in particular. She dreamed of becoming a doctor, enrolled in the medical faculty, and studied anatomy and physiology with the same enthusiasm with which Sergey studied game mechanics. If not for the persistent efforts of parents on both sides, these young people would spend almost all their free time at home—he at the computer, she with textbooks.
The parents almost succeeded in changing their son’s priorities through marriage. Marina turned out to be smart and kind, and Sergey was beginning to develop real feelings for her. But the release of a long-awaited patch for his favorite game was a blow to all their efforts—he disappeared into the virtual world for days again.
Two deafening explosions sounded above—death claimed two more soldiers, whoever they were. Sergey felt his stomach clench with horror. The goggles showed a lot of information in numbers, but he did not understand most of the designations. The only number that was rapidly decreasing was clearly the altimeter. Two and a half kilometers remained until the ground. Another value was slowly increasing—probably the descent speed. Time was running out.
Sergey brought his hand with the cartographic device to the umbrella image on his chest. It was difficult to make out the details because of the protective mask and air turbulence; the jumpsuit fit tightly around his body. In any case, what was the point of guessing? There was no time left.
He tried to press the umbrella icon, looked up—nothing happened. Panic intensified with every second.
Suddenly, the wrist computer displayed a message: “Connection established. Swipe finger along the arc for activation.” An image of an arc appeared on the inner surface of the protective goggles. Sergey had never used similar interfaces in real life, but his hours of experience playing virtual reality games suggested the logic of gesture control.
Without further thought, he swiped his finger along the glowing arc according to the system’s prompt. The glove slipped from sweat, but the gesture succeeded.
The expected jolt from a parachute opening did not follow—nor was there a backpack for carrying a folded canopy on his back. However, the numbers on the display clearly showed that the descent speed began to rapidly decrease, and the approach to the ground noticeably slowed down. The gear straps dug into his shoulders from the abrupt braking, but the pain was pleasant—it meant the system was working. Looking up, he noticed a barely perceptible shimmer in the form of a dome above him—something completely unlike a conventional fabric parachute.
A distorted voice was heard in the earphone, but static drowned out most of the message. Through the static discharges, he only made out one word: “…north…”—after which the connection was cut off completely.
Sergey realized that he was now a perfect target for any opponent on the ground. A cold shiver ran down his spine; his muscles tensed with animal fear. He was afraid—truly, helplessly afraid.
For some reason, at this critical moment, he remembered a completely mundane scene: Marina standing at the kitchen table in their new apartment, carefully slicing tomatoes and cucumbers for a simple vegetable salad while he fried frozen French fries in a pan. Banal, domestic pictures began to flood his consciousness one after another—how she laughs at his inability to cook anything more complex than scrambled eggs, how she wrinkles her nose at the smell of burnt oil, how they eat this simple dinner, discussing her studies and his games…
“Life flashes before your eyes before death”—this thought struck him with the force of a physical blow. Why was he thinking about peaceful domestic moments right now, when every second could be his last?
Desperately trying to locate the source of danger, Sergey turned his head in all directions, but the thick vegetation below and the rugged, hilly landscape created countless hiding places. In games, his favorite character was a sniper, so he unconsciously assessed potential positions.
The instrument readings reported that he was descending at a speed of 15 meters per second, but this value gradually decreased as he approached the surface. At least they did not jump over the forest mass, which stretched three to four kilometers from his intended landing point.
Only two hundred meters remained until the ground, and the descent speed had dropped to 7 meters per second and continued to slow steadily. Sergey could already clearly distinguish individual blades of grass—the vegetation was thick, over half a meter high. An ideal place for an ambush.
He had not yet touched the ground, but he was already convulsively searching for suspicious movements in the grass. And then it dawned on him: how do parachutists land anyway? In movies, he had seen some special movements, techniques for touching the ground, but what was hanging over his head had nothing to do with a conventional parachute.
When only one meter remained until the surface, Sergey discovered with amazement that the descent had completely stopped. He hovered in the air, not understanding how to turn off this system. Now he had become a stationary target for any sniper in the vicinity.
After several agonizing seconds, the device on his wrist blinked a warning signal. A short electronic sound was heard in the earphone, and the invisible forces holding him in the air instantly vanished. Sergey clumsily collapsed onto the ground, barely managing to brace himself with his hands. The prickly stems of the tall grass scratched the exposed areas of skin on his wrists; damp earth seeped through the fabric of his jumpsuit onto his knees.
Getting up and brushing the dirt off his jumpsuit, he felt like a complete amateur. Shame burned inside—any professional soldier would have landed much more gracefully.
Looking around, Sergey saw no one. Complete silence, only the rustle of the wind in the tall grass. Who were they fighting? Who was the enemy, shooting those dreadful fiery spheres?
He checked the location of the dots on the map—one blue and several brown. Fortunately for him, they were all to the southwest.
Finding the compass indicator on the goggle display, Sergey determined the direction to north. At least he hadn’t forgotten that from his school geography lessons—it would be shameful not to be able to even find the cardinal directions.
Adjusting his gear straps, he resolutely strode in the indicated direction, hoping that allies, and not new dangers, awaited him in the north.
Chapter 41
Artyom blissfully swayed on an inflatable mattress in the middle of the huge pool, presenting his face to the morning sun. Life was good—a free vacation at an elite hotel, content for streams practically filming itself, and subscribers delighted with his “mystical” stories. He had already begun to get used to this luxury when…
WHOOSH!
Someone flew into the water with a running start, raising a fountain of spray in all directions. Cold drops crashed down on Artyom, making him frown in displeasure.
“Hey, careful!” he grumbled, wiping his face. “I’m sunbathing here!”
But he didn’t argue with the unknown jumper—the pool was large enough for everyone. Artyom continued to drift lazily on the mattress, enjoying the warmth and calm. At that moment, his phone made the familiar notification sound.
Reluctantly reaching for the device lying at the edge of the pool, Artyom expected to see another spam message or a comment on his stream. But the message was from the hotel administration:
“Dear Artyom Lisitsyn. Your stay at the Forest Hotel has been extended by 2 days according to a prepayment from a third party. No additional payments are required. Extension Code: -EX7MM9R41- At your service, The Forest Hotel.”
Artyom reread the message several times, not believing his eyes. Someone had paid extra for his stay? Who and why? There were enthusiasts among his subscribers, but to this extent…
“Did someone actually believe my stories about anomalies?” he muttered, putting the phone down.
The thought was both flattering and frightening. It meant he had hit the nail on the head with his content. He would have to film something especially impressive as a sign of gratitude.
Sergey studied the map on the device on his wrist, and his AR-goggles augmented the image with glowing details, marking the location of the brown dots. Enemies—he understood that intuitively. The nearest one was quite far, but he wasn’t going to risk seeking adventure.
The course was strictly north, toward the forest mass.
Sergey started moving and was immediately struck by his own sensations. He was running over rough terrain—through ravines, up slopes, through thickets—but felt neither shortness of breath nor overwhelming fatigue. Previously, climbing to the third floor without an elevator made him breathe heavily, but now…
“Where does a gamer get this kind of endurance?” he wondered to himself, continuing to move.
Although he was a homebody and a gamer, he wasn’t overweight—his parents closely monitored his diet and forced him to go to the gym. But even with that baseline, such endurance seemed impossible.
The jumpsuit worked flawlessly, automatically compensating for heat with light cooling. Sergey felt like a character from the most advanced game, only everything was real.
By noon, he came across a spring with cool water. He drank greedily and looked around. Bushes with dark blue berries grew nearby—they looked edible. Sergey filled his mouth, wiping off the flowing fruit juice. In one of the gear pockets, he found some kind of bag—he didn’t know what it was for, but decided to use it to collect berries for the road. He put the full bag of berries into an outer pocket—so the contents wouldn’t be crushed if he had to fall or squeeze somewhere. At least hunger wouldn’t bother him for now.
By evening, checking the map, he found that the brown dots had significantly decreased. Only one remained, at the very edge of the visible radius. Finding a small cave in a rocky outcrop, Sergey decided to rest for a couple of hours.
Moving through an unfamiliar forest at night would have been suicide for an ordinary person, but the AR-goggles turned it into an exciting game. The system analyzed the terrain, highlighting obstacles, safe paths, and potential hiding places. It took Sergey some time to adapt to the new possibilities, but gradually, he began to enjoy it.
“Cooler than any VR game,” he thought, walking around a fallen tree. “FAR CRY VR can take a rest.”
A slight regret came over him—it was a shame his friends couldn’t see and feel this amazing place. He would definitely boast about his fantastic experience when he woke up.
But this was not a game. Games remained in that reality, and he was here. And he had to deal with that fact. Sergey made a decision: go a few more kilometers north, make a stop, and then climb to a high point for a better view.
With the first rays of the sun, he set off again. Overnight, he had completely mastered the functions of his equipment and discovered something amazing. It turned out that his gear could connect to external modules via contactless connection. Icons of various devices flashed in the interface: stationary machine guns, hovering reconnaissance drones, even some kind of “wings.” All this could be controlled remotely.
“What an advanced system,” Sergey admired, studying the new options.
He also learned that instead of a controlled descent device, he could deploy a small energy shield capable of withstanding several low-power kinetic impacts.
But his thoughts were interrupted by a radar signal. New dots appeared on the edge of the map—only now they were not brown, but blue. Just like himself in the center of the display. Allies?
Sergey froze, watching the developments. Several blue dots separated from the main group and began moving in his direction.
A meeting was inevitable.
Chapter 42
Artyom leisurely climbed out of the pool, still processing the unexpected news about his extended stay. One of his subscribers truly believed in his stories so much that they decided to finance the continuation of his “research.” This opened up new possibilities.
Wiping himself with a towel, he mentally planned his next filming sessions. He needed to shoot something especially impressive as a sign of gratitude to the generous donator. Maybe try filming at night? Or set up cameras in the spots where anomalies had previously been recorded?
“The Sly Fox is back in the game,” he muttered with a smile, heading toward his room.
Denis Konstantinovich Krakin leaned back in his chair, massaging his temples. The sun had already set, and he was still trying to make sense of his predecessor’s notes.
Komarov was clearly out of this world. Every page of his reports was littered with mentions of anomalies, strange occurrences, and “energy surges.” The man recorded absolutely all his conjectures, turning an ordinary leisure hotel into some kind of center for extreme survival.
“Personnel report unusual dreams…” Denis read another line. — “Guests complain of disorientation in the corridors…” — “Cases of air temperature change without visible cause are recorded…” — “Pests are attacking the infrastructure; they clearly want to hide something from the hotel’s surveillance.”
The last entry particularly amused Denis. Judging by the attached photo, a simple squirrel had chewed through a camera cable. Komarov clearly wanted to strangle it for such a banality and ended up recording it as “sabotage against the surveillance system.”
However, when his predecessor started writing about his swim in the milk pool of the local fountain in their shared dream, Denis couldn’t handle the nonsense anymore.
With every page, his head ached more intensely. The last time he had been so tired was after a serious leg injury sustained during an operation in the mountains. Now he just wanted to sleep.
He had met Gromov through his connections in the Ministry of Defense. He didn’t know that the hotel owner and the Minister were relatives, but the Minister’s recommendation had made a good impression on Gromov. After retiring from service, Denis took up civilian management, and Gromov regularly sent him to sort out his business’s “headaches.” Over the years of cooperation, Krakin had become a true lightning rod for him, clearing up any lunacy.
But these reports surpassed everything he had encountered.
Denis slammed the folder shut and rubbed his forehead. He would deal with this nonsense tomorrow and bring normal order here. For now, he needed to sleep.
Denis awoke in the corridor of a futuristic fort. The walls glowed with a soft bluish light, and the air carried the scent of ozone and machine oil. He tried to focus, but his memory was hazy—he distinctly remembered going to sleep at the hotel, or was it not distinct… maybe he couldn’t even remember what was happening at all.
“Captain Krakin!” a lean man in a Colonel’s uniform called out. “You are assigned command of the Fifth Section. You have twenty-five men under you, not counting logistics and support.”
Denis felt everything clench inside him. The front again? But he was in civilian life! Although… he realized he understood nothing, but he was accustomed to following his superiors’ orders without question.
“Yes, sir!” he automatically replied.
His subordinate was already leading him down the corridor to the Fifth Section. Along the way, Denis covertly examined the soldiers’ weaponry and internally panicked. He had only been out of the service for five years, yet the technology here had advanced so much! It was as if he had stepped into a fantasy world. Energy rifles, holographic sights, exoskeletons… Nowhere was it stated who they were fighting.
When the escort left, Denis found himself in front of a large officer’s tent. Two soldiers stood at the entrance, who greeted him warmly and invited him inside.
“Captain on section!” one of them barked.
Two men were sitting inside—a Sergeant and a Lieutenant. They instantly jumped to their feet at the sight of the superior officer. Denis mechanically noted the correctness of their reaction, but then his attention was drawn by the siren alarm that tore through the camp’s silence.
Everyone tensed, silently putting pressure on Denis. They expected decisions from him.
They all ran outside together, observing the organized movement of people around the camp. About twenty men immediately lined up before Denis. The Lieutenant stood nearby; the Sergeant took a position by the formation. His task was clear—maintaining order in the group. There was no need to think about strategies or tactics.
Denis turned his head to assess the fort wall, and his gaze fell on his own shoulder boards. Captain? Only Captain?! In reality, he was a Major, yet here… demoted? But why? Well, he’d figure that out later. He had received the order from a Colonel, so he couldn’t have any complaints.
Immediately orienting himself, he understood: there was a Lieutenant here; he could “play by the rules.”
“Lieutenant, report the situation,” he stated clearly.
The young officer started mumbling something indistinct about “possible contact with the enemy” and “readiness to repel an attack.” Denis internally cursed the training system—they give Lieutenants straight out of the academy, but there’s nothing useful in their heads yet.
Without waiting for the rambling report, he headed to the wall to assess the situation himself. Someone chuckled in surprise; the Lieutenant stopped mid-sentence, and the Sergeant, although he saw the inexperience of his superior, likely couldn’t have done better himself.
What he saw beyond the wall was a truly captivating sight of a professionally built defense. The wall he was standing on was the third line—about six meters high. The second line of defense consisted of small turrets, most likely remotely controlled. They were inactive now, only calibrating their functions before the battle.
Another wall, significantly lower—about three meters—was located in front of the line of turrets. And the foremost line consisted of trenches and barricades.
Denis studied the battlefield beyond the wall. There was no vegetation there at all—no trees, no bushes, not even grass. Dead earth stretched to the horizon. This was his zone of responsibility in the Fifth Sector.
Looking closely at the damage to parts of the second and third lines of defense, he made a professional conclusion: the enemy definitely had artillery and infantry. The nature of the damage spoke of serious assaults. Only, strangely, there were no corpses to be seen. Maybe they were moved somewhere after the battle?
And at that moment, five violet spheres shot into the sky from beyond the horizon line at once. They did not move like projectiles as he understood them—too smoothly, almost gliding in the air.
“Some kind of new weapon?” Denis murmured, unable to take his eyes off the approaching objects.
Chapter 43
“Move, newbie, why are you sleeping on the go?”
Marina looked up in fright at the woman, who was a head taller than her, with shoulders as wide as a real man’s. At that moment, a deafening siren sounded outside. The woman in a white coat with a green badge threw a coat her size at her, not intending to wait for her to snap out of it. There was a lot of work to do, and here was a “sleeping beauty” sent from the center to help them. Hopefully, she’d be useful, otherwise, she’d be mopping floors and cleaning tool tables.
Marina blinked, clutching the white coat. She had just been next to her husband and… “Did I fall asleep?! Damn…”—she felt deeply ashamed for five seconds, then she put on the coat, picked up the badge with her name from the table, and followed the mannish woman. In any case, following the rules was better than being slow-witted.
The siren sounded once more and lasted about five seconds this time, then a deafening silence followed. She even thought she had gone deaf. Only then did footsteps sound from all directions. The territory, which had seemed deserted, filled with movement in an instant.
The woman assessed Marina’s actions and nodded approvingly. If she was following her in uniform, she would be of some use. She just needed to get used to it first. Marina approached her and discreetly read her name: Karolina Vasilyeva. Yes, the name suited such parameters. The girl stood nearby and waited for instructions, feeling her legs tremble. This was the first time she could actually help someone. But could she really help, or would she just be a burden?
Marina noticed a man run toward the wall and, in several jumps, literally flew onto it, and it was at least six meters high. “What resilience!”—she thought in her heart. Nothing would make her climb that wall in this situation. With her legs like cotton wool, she would only approach the wall and collapse next to it, so she would need help herself. Oh, no! She came to help, why was she immediately envisioning such a pessimistic scenario?
Marina tried to pull herself together, as it was easy to get a nickname in medical institutions but extremely difficult to get rid of it. She didn’t want to be an “idiot” or a “burden.”
Karolina looked at Marina and couldn’t help but smile—she saw herself twenty years ago in her. However, now was not the time for nostalgia.
“You’ll be under his command, don’t embarrass us!” The woman poked her finger at the man on the wall, as if she could reach him, then turned and barked at another girl: “Go with her!”—then calmed down and added: “Show her everything here; she’s like a newborn.”
The girl who was addressed nodded and stepped toward Marina, taking her hand—Marina seemed extremely sluggish. Tactile connection always reached the sluggish brain faster than persuasion. Holding her hand, she walked to the medical tent to grab a toolbox for aid.
Marina drifted like a leaf on the water; everything was hazy. They said something to her, but she only nodded. They told her to take the box—she took it; they told her to change into more suitable shoes—she changed. Her mechanical movements only elicited sighs from her partner.
Finally, they approached the officer’s tent, where two soldiers were still standing. The girl released Marina’s hand and approached one of the guys. It was clear from their interaction that the relationship had been developing for some time.
Suddenly, sharp sounds echoed overhead, as if a plane were breaking the sound barrier. Marina instantly snapped out of it and pulled herself together. She had finally passed the adaptation stage; now her brain was up to speed, and she was ready to be serious and responsible.
The girl looked up, where the shots had come from. At an altitude of fifteen meters in the neighboring sector, a streak of gray smoke was visible from the muzzles of huge tower guns located behind the third line of defense. Out of curiosity, she turned her head to where they were shooting and was shocked to notice two violet spheres in the distance, as well as three beautiful explosions, as if someone had scattered violet flour right in the sky.
They only shot down three out of five—Denis grieved in his heart. He saw these enormous tower guns but didn’t think they could be used in such a way. Nevertheless, these guns could not raise their muzzles above a certain angle, so they only had one attempt. Be that as it may, three out of five was better than none.
At that moment, the siren sounded only in the neighboring sector, not affecting the others. Denis saw the soldiers taking cover, running into bunkers and tightly closing the doors. He immediately became wary. Should they run too? Were the warning systems reliable? Were these violet spheres really that scary?
He decided not to tempt fate and climbed down from the wall. Ignoring the Lieutenant’s offended look, Denis barked at him:
“Everyone to battle stations!”
Afterward, he climbed onto one of the fifteen-meter towers in his sector. He needed information; he couldn’t just guess.
In the operational tower of long-range interception—that was the name on the door downstairs—there were two people. One was the aiming operator, the other the communications specialist. Their task was to get the coordinates of their targets and strike as quickly as possible so as not to lose the window of opportunity. However, the movement of the energy spheres turned out to be more chaotic, so it was always “fifty-fifty” even with all the data from the reconnaissance service.
But Denis was not concerned about the numbers; now he was concerned about the lack of information, so he stood on the improvised balcony and followed the trajectory of the two violet spheres that had risen high overhead. Following the simplest geometry, they passed the highest point on the arc and were about to begin their descent. There was no point in using the cannons at such a distance, as they would do more harm than good.
He looked at his subordinates, noticing the flirtation between the girl in the white coat and the soldier near the officer’s tent. He really should give someone a talking-to, but Denis remembered that positive thinking was much better than strained nerves and stress. He simply shifted his gaze to the falling spheres, which were increasing in size at an enormous speed. Before, they looked like cherries, then watermelons. Now it was a huge energy pumpkin that continued to grow in size.
If his soldiers were standing calmly, it meant the sound wave from the explosion would be negligible or non-existent. Hmm, what exactly was the damage from such a weapon?
The true size of the sphere reached more than two meters when it was a hundred meters away. Three seconds later, the first sphere slammed into the six-meter wall; four seconds after that, the second sphere exploded in the open area between the same wall and the large tower.
Denis looked at the impact site and understood nothing—he saw no destruction. Maybe it only works on biological organisms? And only then did he notice violet gas erupting from the impact site of the sphere and spreading around. Everything it touched began to smoke. Temperature! These spheres did not carry kinetic damage; they struck everything in the radius with enormous thermal pressure.
He looked at the wall and couldn’t believe it. The width of the wall reached about three meters, but the stone in the area of contact with the gas was melting like foam plastic. Then he looked at the wall where the first shot landed and was horrified. The entire section of the wall in a certain radius was melted. These spheres were like small suns that exploded the moment they reached their target!
However, this time, three more violet spheres rose from behind the horizon. Suddenly, he heard the communications specialist shouting something to the aiming operator; their tower was moving. Denis quickly descended, as he did not want to go deaf from the power of the shot. He only managed to run to the communications specialist’s table when he received headphones from him. Denis saw that they had already put theirs on, so he did not hesitate for a second.
A moment later, he felt his vision darken. The power of this weapon shook him to the core.
A couple of seconds later, he regained his sight, noticing that he himself was standing with his mouth open. Composing himself, he praised the soldiers for their excellent work and, returning the headphones, ran back to the balcony to assess the shot.
The man exhaled when he saw the horizon. Three enormous violet spots were scorching the earth and the sky where they ruptured. Insanely beautiful and incredibly terrifying. Then he watched as the emergency lights turned on in the neighboring sector, and people began to leave their shelters, clutching their heads from the shock of what they had seen. Nevertheless, their Captain immediately gave instructions for them not to gawk with open mouths, theatrically waving their arms, but to go assess the damage and restore what could be restored.
Denis was learning quickly, noticing details. But suddenly, he heard the siren across the entire base, which sounded for ten seconds. He lingered on the balcony to understand what would happen next. At that moment, he felt a very low hum coming from somewhere far away.
Chapter 44
The first strike hit the Second and Fourth Sectors. Denis noticed movement on the horizon, and as the enemy approached, he grew increasingly incredulous. What was moving toward them were… mutant insects! Bus-length millipedes rapidly sped across the dead earth, their segmented bodies gleaming like black metal in the dim light.
“Contact!” the communications specialist shouted, pressing his headphones. “Second and Fourth are under attack!”
Autonomous reconnaissance drones—small, silent apparatuses—rose into the sky above the fort, activated by the alarm signal. Their cameras recorded every enemy movement, transmitting the video feed to analysts in the rear.
The first scarlet sphere appeared in the sky, slowly rising from beyond the horizon. The tower cannons immediately opened fire. An explosion at high altitude scattered meteors directly onto the advancing millipedes.
“We have hits!” the aiming operator yelled.
But the attack continued. Moths rose into the air—huge creatures with wingspans larger than a fighter jet, with round egg-bombs gleaming in their claws.
Denis gripped the balcony railing, watching as the defenders of other sectors opened fire. The turrets of the second line of defense rattled with continuous bursts. Golden beams of laser rifles flashed from the sniper towers—in each of the sector’s three towers, two shooters worked, methodically selecting targets. The first millipedes began to fall, and immediately, Denis saw something that made him flinch.
The wounded creatures didn’t just die—they exploded in bright fireworks of green sparks. But before that, a thick emerald slime flowed from their wounds, quickly covering the ground.
“Beetles are coming!” the communications specialist shouted, pointing to a new wave of movement beyond the horizon. Now, massive armored monsters—beetles of monstrous size—appeared behind the millipedes.
“Activate the sticky mines!” the Lieutenant commanded, without looking away from the communication console.
The operator at the control panel quickly pressed several buttons. Hidden mines activated across the entire battlefield, ready to jump up and attach to the belly of any heavy opponent.
The first millipedes reached the barricades. They leaped over obstacles with frightening ease, but the turrets mowed down their ranks. With each death, the field became covered with an increasing amount of toxic green mass.
In the Second Sector, soldiers of the second line of defense moved out in special mechanical suits—cumbersome but sealed. Their filters worked at the limit, purifying the air from the slime’s poisonous fumes.
“Look at these unpleasant creatures,” Denis muttered, watching as the millipedes began to bypass the most dangerous sections of the barricades.
About five millipedes broke through. They rushed into the second line of defense, where they were met by soldiers in heavy armor. The clang of metal against chitin was audible even here. One soldier swung an energy blade, cutting a millipede in half. The creature exploded in a fireworks of green sparks, splashing the defender with slime. Fortunately, his suit held up.
The moths attacked from above. The turrets turned to the sky; silver tracer rounds pierced the air toward the flying targets. The sniper towers, rising to a height of ten meters—almost twice the height of the wall—joined the fight. The twelve shooters in the sector worked smoothly, like a single organism. The first moth, caught in crossfire, burst into flames and crashed outside the fort. The detonation of its egg-bombs and its own flesh covered two millipedes, turning them into green sludge and bright sparks.
The second scarlet sphere rose into the sky. This time it was shot down at medium range—the snipers worked flawlessly. The meteor shower crashed down on the beetles, but their powerful armor withstood most of the hits.
One of the beetles finally reached the mine zone. A sticky mine shot up and attached to the monster’s soft belly. The explosion shook the ground, turning the giant into a green fountain of slime and sparks.
“Damn them, they’re smarter than they looked,” the tower aiming operator cursed, watching as the remaining beetles began to move more cautiously.
The turrets quieted, and the tower cannons fell silent. Soldiers began to slowly leave their posts. Everyone was stressed, so Denis wouldn’t reproach them for acting independently. They had been here longer than him, which meant he would have a little time to catch his breath.
By the end of the first wave, the battlefield had turned into a swamp of toxic green mass. Vapors rose to the sky in poisonous clouds, and only the sealed suits of the defenders allowed them to continue the fight.
“Report to the infirmary—expect wounded from the Second and Fourth,” Denis ordered the Lieutenant over the radio. “And warn them about the toxic fumes.”
Taking advantage of the lull, Denis climbed down from the tower and headed to the officer’s tent. Inside, a folder with the previous commander’s personal belongings lay on the table. Photos, letters, service records…
“Lieutenant,” he called the young officer who was coordinating communication with other sectors.
“Yes, Captain!”
“Tell me about my predecessor. How did the previous Captain die?”
The Lieutenant briefly recounted the tragedy from three days ago. Denis listened, nodding and reviewing his predecessor’s notes. An experienced officer, he had served here for two months and knew every soldier by name. In one of the photos, he stood next to a sniper—both were smiling.
“The Colonel reports that the next wave is expected in fifteen minutes,” the Lieutenant reported into his headphones. “First, Third, and Sixth Sectors.”
“Understood. We are ready,” Denis nodded, setting the folder aside. He had to live up to the trust of the fallen Captain.
In the medical tent, Marina was preparing tools when Karolina burst in with the first batch of casualties.
“Burns from acid slime, lacerations, possible vapor poisoning,” she reported clearly, pointing to each wounded soldier. “Check everyone’s airways!”
Marina rushed to the first casualty. The soldier was pulled out of his damaged suit—his armor was partially dissolved by the green sludge. The wound was deep, but the edges were strangely closing quickly.
“How is that possible?” she whispered, treating the injuries.
“Don’t ask unnecessary questions, work,” Karolina snapped, leaning over another casualty.
The next patient had taken a direct hit from an exploding millipede. His suit cracked, and toxic fumes entered inside. Marina, with trembling hands, administered the antidote, praying that she wasn’t too late.
“You’re working well,” Karolina approved. “You don’t panic when dealing with severe injuries on your first shift.”
Chapter 45
Twenty minutes later, the second wave began. This time, the strike hit the First, Third, and Sixth Sectors. The enemy seemed to be testing different defense sections, looking for weak spots. Denis watched as a new wave of millipedes made its way through the green acidic fumes left behind by the first wave. This time, they were accompanied by five enormous beetles.
The third scarlet sphere flashed on the horizon. The tower cannon failed to hit it, so the burden fell upon the snipers of the Third Sector. They only managed to hit it three hundred meters from the first line of defense—too close. Meteors crashed down on the millipedes’ forward positions, but a couple of fragments hit the defenders’ ranks. The enemy was suppressing them, but the soldiers had faced them before, so no one even flinched.
Sticky mines activated under the five-ton bellies of two beetles one after another. But the other monsters, sensing danger, began moving in a zigzag pattern, trying to avoid the underground traps. Every explosion of toxic green fountain was reflected by approval in the defenders’ hearts.
The soldiers on the walls in mechanical suits opened fire with shotguns that had an increased range of destruction and enhanced accuracy. Penetrating rounds with a poisoning effect carved their way between the scales, forcing the monsters to emit howling sounds, more like metal scraping against metal. The poison worked slowly but surely. Every successful hit broke the rhythm and gave the tower cannons an opportunity to take aim at the weakened target.
In the sky, eight moths attacked simultaneously. The sniper towers flashed with golden beams—eighteen shooters from the three attacked sectors worked at the limit of their abilities. The silver tracer rounds of the turrets intertwined with the golden sniper shots, creating a deadly web of death in the air. Nevertheless, no one was so overconfident as to underestimate the endurance of these mutants.
Denis noticed two moths break through the curtain of fire and begin systematically throwing egg-bombs, adding new layers of toxic slime to the ranks of the second line of defense. If successful, these projectiles could even reach the sniper towers, inflicting significant damage on the building. However, this was not common, as snipers from neighboring sectors assessed the threat and helped colleagues neutralize it.
Due to the density of the wave, the fourth scarlet sphere was not shot down in time, so it flew to close range, where they decided not to shoot it down over the defenders. It fell and exploded with a small radius of meteors, hitting one millipede near the impact site. One of the soldiers on the wall, hearing the sergeant’s scream in his headphones, lunged sideways, miraculously dodging the scattered meteors. Realizing what had happened, he felt a cold sweat cover his back. Another moment, and the Lieutenant would have had to notify his family of the tragic death of their breadwinner.
By the end of the second wave, controlled chaos reigned in the infirmary. Marina, feeling dizzy and subdued after the first wave, worked tirelessly, her coat stained with strange green patches. A new batch of wounded arrived with even more severe chemical burns.
“Karolina,” Marina called, without looking up from her work. “Why do normal wounds heal so quickly?”
“The merit of technology,” the senior nurse replied shortly. “Focus on neutralizing the poisons.”
After a short break, the entire fort was engulfed in a piercing siren that rattled the weary defenders. This meant the last wave, but also the cruelest. Hearing the warning in his sector, Denis felt a tremor throughout his body, but quickly composed himself. From the excitement and anticipation of the third wave, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment before starting to give orders.
This time, the siren did not stop for thirty seconds—all six sectors were being attacked simultaneously. Denis felt his stomach clench into a knot. An entire cloud rose on the horizon. “Twenty-seven millipedes, ten beetles, and nine moths,” the Lieutenant’s voice announced over the radio. They moved toward the fort in a wide front, crossing the sea of toxic green slime.
“Five scarlet spheres approaching!” the communications specialist shouted, pointing to the sky.
The red objects rose from beyond the horizon almost simultaneously, coordinating their attack with the ground forces.
“To positions!” Denis ordered. “Mines—activation, full power!”
The tower cannons opened a hurricane of fire. The first scarlet sphere exploded before it could rise to a high altitude, scattering into dozens of meteors. The first sector worked on its target. The red-hot fragments crashed down on the enemy positions but did not inflict much damage, as the millipedes quickly dispersed across the field.
The second and third spheres flew toward his sector, so the deafening noise of the shots was the only thing Denis heard. The suppressive fire was powerful, but the enemies stubbornly continued their advance, jumping over smoking craters and moving through the toxic fumes. The first ruptures of defeated mutants appeared. Bright, beautiful fireworks, but so deadly.
Nevertheless, the second sphere was hit five kilometers from the first line of defense; the third sphere was destroyed one and a half kilometers away by one of the snipers. Denis felt overwhelming nervousness; he critically lacked experience and understanding of tactics, but he continued to watch carefully and draw conclusions in real combat conditions.
The fourth scarlet sphere broke through the curtain of fire. The sniper towers focused their fire—six golden beams from different sectors converged on the target simultaneously. The explosion in the air, a kilometer from the second line of defense, caused three defenders to activate energy shields to avoid the burning debris of secondary explosions.
The fifth sphere turned out to be the most problematic. It bypassed all defense lines and exploded with a direct hit on the tower cannon of the neighboring sector. Meteors crashed in all directions onto the walls and towers. Denis heard the whistle of an approaching fragment and instinctively jumped sideways.
A meteor slammed into the wall five meters away from him, after which the blast wave hurled him down from the wall. Six meters of free fall… The vast sky was the only thing Denis saw at that moment. The fall… Pain in his left shoulder.
“Damn,” he hissed, trying to get up. His arm hurt badly, and blood flowed from a cut on his forehead.
But the battle continued. Millipedes burst into the fortifications of all sectors simultaneously, raising clouds of toxic dust. Beetles slowly but relentlessly advanced toward the walls under a hail of poisoned buckshot charges. Moths circled near the fort, dropping egg-bombs into the sea of green slime.
In the Fifth Sector, the sticky mines worked perfectly—two beetles exploded in a fireworks of green sparks, adding tons of toxic mass. But the third mutant beetle broke through to the wall of the Fourth Sector and immediately began to climb over the three-meter wall, its claws scraping against the metal. A green stream burst from its mandibles, attempting to attack the defenders of the second line of defense.
The beetle was a genuine catastrophe, as the tower cannons couldn’t reach it at such a close distance, and the turrets simply couldn’t penetrate its carapace. “Give me 3 cryos,” the Captain of the Fourth Sector commanded without alarm in his voice. Three huge drones rose from behind the tower cannons and, at high speed, crashed into the wall of the first line of defense under the crawling beetle.
The wall was covered with a crust of ice at an incredible speed, which prevented the beetle from gaining a foothold to move its huge body further. The soldiers on the walls in sealed suits opened a hurricane of fire with shotguns. The poisonous shells pierced gaps in the beetle’s carapace, and it howled in pain. The poison acted quickly—the monster began to lose coordination.
After five minutes of fighting and hundreds of shots, the beetle’s body crashed down. It was still alive but immobilized due to the concentration of the poisoning it received. They would not kill it now, otherwise, it would inflict significant damage on the Fourth Sector’s defense lines.
“Medics!” the Sergeant shouted into the radio, jumping down from his position when he saw the wounded Denis on the ground. He pressed the alarm button on his radio to send coordinates for the rescue service. A few seconds later, the radio confirmed the dispatch of the evacuation team. The Sergeant leaned over Denis, trying to help him stand up.
One and a half minutes later, two medics in protective suits ran up to them. Placing him on an unusual stretcher, they moved toward the nearest medical tent. On the way, Denis assessed the course of the battle—soldiers were rotating shifts, resting for five minutes, the smoking ruins of the third line of defense, one tower cannon in his sector received serious damage and would be out of the game until fully repaired.
Incredibly, he was lying on a stretcher that had neither a frame nor wheels. The movement was very smooth, as if he were floating down a river. Other wounded soldiers in damaged suits were being carried past. Moreover, only a slight hum was heard from these stretchers, but no engine noise or sound of propulsion!
The infirmary had turned into a branch of hell. The air was saturated with the smell of antidotes and neutralizers. Marina rushed between the wounded; her hands trembled with fatigue; sweat poured down, but she continued to work. No one would say she was a burden!
“New patient!” the medic announced, pulling Denis inside.
Marina looked up and froze. In front of her was the very man she had seen jumping onto the wall. The Captain under whose command she was supposed to work. Now he was wounded, his face contorted with pain, and his left arm was slightly swollen.
“Captain,” she breathed out, running up to the stretcher.
Denis looked at her through a haze of pain. A familiar face… Where had he seen her? Ah yes, that girl near the tent.
“You… a nurse,” he mumbled, trying to focus.
“Marina,” she introduced herself, examining his wounds. “Everything will be alright now.”
Her hands were surprisingly gentle and confident. She treated the cut on his forehead, then carefully scanned his damaged shoulder. She was shown an amazing device that could assess the injury and show treatment recommendations in seconds. She was truly fascinated by the possibilities of this tablet with a scanner attachment.
“Clavicle fracture,” Marina diagnosed. “Nothing critical, but it needs to be stabilized.”
Denis disliked wasting time, so he wanted to get back to his soldiers as quickly as possible, but he noticed an inexplicable gleam in the girl’s eyes. Trying to stand up, to his shock, he realized that she had managed to tie him to the bed to prevent him from escaping. Apparently, this was one of the medical staff’s directives. He could be a Captain or a Colonel, but here he was a patient and had no right to object.
Working, Marina covertly studied his face. Strong features, a determined gaze; even through the pain, firmness was readable in his eyes. This man had seen real wars, but now he was extremely shocked and exhausted.
“What is your name?” she asked, applying the bandage. A standard procedure for assessing a person’s condition—asking simple questions.
“Denis,” he replied, watching her actions. He wanted to introduce himself according to all military rules, but normality had ended here after the first siren. “Denis Konstantinovich.”
Something about the way she worked was calming. Professional, precise movements, but without the coldness of an experienced medic. There was warmth in her, a genuine concern for the patient. Denis was about to say something but lost consciousness.
It finally worked, Marina sighed in relief. She felt extremely uneasy when dealing with the sector’s commander. Changing the IV bag, she sat down next to him for a minute on the chair. The girl only wanted this nightmare to end. In any case, she would continue to work diligently, giving her all and completely immersing herself in what was happening, losing all understanding of the line between fantasy and reality.
Beyond the walls of the infirmary, distant explosions were still heard, but the worst was over. The fort had held, though at a heavy cost. The field around it had turned into a toxic wasteland.
Chapter 46
At the Fort Headquarters.
Denis stood at attention before the massive metal table, behind which the Colonel sat. Yesterday’s wounds still ached beneath fresh medical bandages, but the pain receded into the background—his entire demeanor radiated readiness for a new assignment.
“Captain Krakin,” the Colonel’s voice sounded official, without a trace of yesterday’s camaraderie. “Report on the situation.”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
“A week ago, we requested reinforcements from headquarters. Our sensors detected a single target moving toward us from the enemy’s positions.” The Colonel pointed to a tactical display, where a blue dot was blinking. “Distance—two kilometers, speed of movement—standard walking pace.”
Denis studied the scheme, noting the trajectory of the unknown individual.
“The task is as follows,” the Colonel continued. “You will lead a squad to verify and identify the target. If it is our reinforcement—ensure a safe passage to the fort.” He handed Denis a small device the size of a palm. “Here is your key to identification.”
Denis accepted the device—a matte metal rectangle with a small screen and a sensor panel.
“Comrade Colonel, the principle of operation?”
“It scans implant chips for the authenticity of headquarters codes. If the person was indeed sent to us—the device will confirm it.” The Colonel stood up. “Additional task: if it is a scout from the reinforcement, find out when the main forces will arrive and what their number is.”
“Understood, Comrade Colonel. Squad composition?”
“Four fighters plus you. Standard armament, one sniper for cover. Take a technician with you; at least he can operate the vehicle.” He snapped his fingers. “You move out in ten minutes.”
Denis saluted:
“Will ensure identification and escort!”
Earlier: Sergey’s Encounter.
Sergey was walking across an open field when his personal radar detected the approaching blue dots of allies…
The screen showed the group of signals rapidly closing the distance. Sergey realized—it was a vehicle. Judging by the speed and the clear formation of the dots, there was an entire squad inside.
Two hundred meters. One hundred fifty. One hundred.
And suddenly, all the blue markers simultaneously flashed brown—the color of the enemy.
Sergey’s heart skipped a beat. A setup? Had the enemies learned to mask their signals as allies? Where to run in the middle of an open field if it was a trap?
But after five agonizing seconds, the dots turned blue again, maintaining an unchanging relative position. A vehicle. Definitely a vehicle with people inside.
The transport materialized from the haze, and Sergey nearly gasped—it had no wheels. The vehicle smoothly glided over the ground, as if levitating in the air.
Soldiers in massive mechanical suits jumped out of the hatches, instantly surrounding Sergey in a tight ring. The muzzles of their weapons were aimed directly at him.
Sergey’s hand instinctively flew to where his weapon should have been. But there was nothing there. Absolutely nothing. He hadn’t brought any armament with him!
“Calmly,” he raised his hands to chest level, trying to speak steadily. “This is some kind of misunderstanding. There’s no need to react like this.”
An officer stepped out of the vehicle, and surprise flashed across his face. Sergey’s expression looked more like a frightened child than an elite soldier. However, perhaps it was a tactic to lull them into a false sense of security.
“You’re mistaken,” Denis approached. “This is standard procedure. It is necessary for identity confirmation. Do not make any sudden or ill-advised movements while we verify. Believe me, we are all on edge.”
Sergey slowly exhaled. If these were the rules—he needed to follow them. In any case, he had arrived at his allies. And the unusual meeting was cool, like a game intro upon changing locations.
The Lieutenant handed Denis a tablet. He held the device up to Sergey, and the screen flashed a red triangle with the inscription “UNIDENTIFIED CHIP.”
The soldiers around the perimeter tightened the circle even more. Sergey felt that it was no longer funny. He had come all this way, and now what?
“Excuse me!” the technician ran up, wiping his sweaty palms. “I heard an update was released, but I didn’t pay attention. We haven’t had reinforcements from headquarters. And even if we did—everyone has old implants. I couldn’t imagine they would send someone with the new version!”
The technician’s hands trembled with excitement as he adjusted the scanner settings.
“I want to see what they added to the new sample,” he muttered, reconfiguring the device to support the extended range of versions.
The tablet screen blinked, processing the data, and then displayed a green confirmation. Sergey’s chip number was added to the fort’s knowledge base.
“Everything is in order,” Denis dismissed the soldiers. “Let’s return.”
The fighters headed back to the transport, but Sergey felt their distrustful glances. Denis took a seat inside the vehicle and gestured for him to sit opposite. When everyone was seated, the technician closed the hatches and directed the transport back toward the fort.
Sergey was surprised to feel the vehicle smoothly levitate above the ground—the unevenness of the terrain did not affect the smoothness of the glide at all.
Denis returned the tablet to the Lieutenant and leaned slightly toward Sergey:
“So, are you from the reinforcement team?”
“Something like that,” Sergey replied, not knowing military regulations and simply improvising.
Denis was slightly surprised by the informality but decided not to dwell on it. Unlike him, the soldiers were clearly unhappy with how some youngster was addressing the Captain of their sector. But Sergey wasn’t even looking at them—he was just enjoying the ride, as he had only traveled on foot before.
“That’s excellent,” Denis continued. “When will the rest arrive?”
Sergey suddenly realized that he had been misunderstood:
“The rest won’t be coming. Only I survived.”
The transport descended into an awkward silence. Everyone was shocked by this statement.
They arrived at the base, and Denis sent Sergey to register at the headquarters while he went to the Colonel. The brief report about the sole survivor from the reinforcement squad caused the commander to immediately summon the newcomer.
Sergey entered the Colonel’s office, accompanied by a soldier. Several people were in the room, including Denis. The Colonel studied Sergey for a moment, then asked directly:
“What happened? Why are you alone?”
Sergey realized he had to talk his way out of it somehow:
“We were flying, and everything was fine until we were attacked. It was an ambush.” He paused, seeing how everyone in the room felt a chill. The mutants had become more cunning; this hadn’t happened before. “Some kind of violet spheres were destroying our men right in the air. I survived only because I opened the parachute later than usual, risking my life.”
If these spheres were hitting soldiers in the air, it meant that not even remains would be found. A disaster! Their men were already tired and due for rotation. Now they were trapped here—fight or die.
“Your specialization?” the Colonel asked.
“Sniper,” Sergey quickly answered, surprised by his own choice.
Why a sniper? He couldn’t take a step back and choose another “class.” On the other hand, long distance was always safer in games.
The Colonel nodded and glanced at the dossier. An improved implant… but they didn’t know its capabilities yet, and what good was one soldier anyway? He turned to Denis: “Captain, he’s yours. Put him in the position of the fallen sniper.”
The meeting was adjourned, but then a short siren sounded—a small attack on one or two sectors. Denis already understood the meaning of the various alarm signals.
They hurried to Denis’s sector. On the way, Sergey looked around with pleasure, like a tourist on an excursion.
Three minutes later, they reached the desired section. Denis pointed Sergey to the firing position:
“This is your spot.”
But Sergey was no longer listening. His gaze was fixed on the medical tent, from which Marina was emerging, accompanied by Karalina.
Their eyes met.
Chapter 47
Sergey looked at Marina, and a thought flashed through his head: “Wow! Marina got into my dream.” Probably some character with his wife’s face mapped on—an interesting game mechanic.
Marina, meanwhile, was utterly stunned at the sight of her husband. She was ready to run to him, but Karolina pulled her back by the sleeve. “It’s good to be young,” the senior nurse muttered. “But we have work; no time for distractions.”
Sergey, ignoring the confusion of “Marina,” headed toward the sniper tower. The technician watched him with undisguised passion—he really wanted to get to the functions of the new chip, but now was clearly not the time.
On the platform, Sergey found another sniper who had already taken the main position. In a separate storage room, he found several rifles with scopes, chose the “Ghost-M47,” and took the second position. The barrel was in the embrasure, good visibility, but the scope had limitations—he had to wait until the targets entered the line of sight.
A deafening explosion. A scarlet flower blossomed on the horizon. Sergey did not yet know what these spheres were, but he understood—it was a shot.
His neighbor chose a target and began the hunt. The time had come. The attack was aimed at the First and Third Sectors—they only provided support, not directly defending their borders.
Trying to examine the weak points of the target, Sergey realized who he was fighting. Giant insects. He was simply stunned by the scale of what was happening. The sniper scope did not give a full understanding, but even what he saw was beyond the pale. This was not a simple game.
His neighbor maintained targeted fire, without distraction. Sergey distinguished millipedes, moths, and explosions thundering in the distance. The entire base sprang into action. He chose a target and took his first shots, testing the capabilities.
But the sniper scope was irritating—a maximum of 25x magnification at a distance of several kilometers provided no advantage. Waiting for the enemies to approach meant exposing the defenders of the second line to attack.
Sergey focused, trying to see the target better. An additional image appeared on the AR-goggles—75x magnification! Three times more than the rifle scope. He saw the target clearly: body segments, scales, gaps between them, the location of organs on the head.
With enthusiasm, Sergey started working. He hit the millipedes’ legs, slowing their pace, shot at the moths’ wings at the joints, and aimed for the antennae—their only means of orientation instead of eyes. The weak spots were an open book.
After fifteen minutes, everything quieted down. The enemies were completely suppressed. The small wave did not pose difficulties—no one reached the second line, although they made it to the first. The combined fire of the snipers and turrets dealt with the threat effectively.
For Sergey, it was an exciting outing. The neighboring sniper looked at him with horror—such accuracy was beyond comprehension. A god-level sniper. At some point, he even stopped shooting, just watching Sergey’s work. But from the outside, nothing unusual: the same weapon, the same cartridges, the same gear.
The all-clear siren sounded. Descending, the neighboring sniper was still impressed and hesitated to speak. Sergey headed to look for the “character with his wife’s face”—it was logical to check the medical tent.
To those around him, he was the newcomer, and many appreciated the sniper’s work. Opinions changed for the better; some were impressed; he even gained fans. But Sergey ignored the attention, focused on his search.
In the tent, the nurse asked if he needed help. Sergey ignored her shocked face and walked inside, where he found Marina sitting. A chance to troll the game!
Marina was resting after a hard day, saving energy before the serious waves. Noticing Sergey, she stood up and rushed toward him, trying to hug him. He gently dodged, slipping out of her embrace—the character’s reaction seemed inappropriate, even cruel. Had the game developers decided to troll him by exploiting his weaknesses? His resentment grew—the game had taken the lead role, but he was supposed to be dominant.
Marina watched her husband in surprise. She didn’t understand what was reality and what was a dream, but she saw her native person. His attitude was shocking.
“Sergey, are you alright?”
It was as if he woke up. He didn’t know why, but he was sure—it was his wife in front of him.
“Marina?” he asked, shocked.
“Yes, who else were you expecting?”
The ground sank beneath his feet. Why were they here? Where was “here”? He thought it was a game, but his real Marina was in his game?
If everything was so real, then the danger was also real. Notes of fear first touched his consciousness. Now the responsibility was not just for himself—they had to survive together.
Sergey gave in to his emotions, approached, and lightly hugged Marina. Her tense body relaxed—there was no doubt left. A real person had somehow entered the same events.
They settled in a corner of the tent, while the nurses carried on with their duties, glancing at Marina with envy.
Twenty minutes of conversation—attempts to gather information and find an explanation. Many assumptions: dream, hypnosis, alien abduction. Each one failed critical analysis. Bewilderment remained, but the warm feeling of not being alone gave them confidence. Especially Marina—the constant stress from working with injuries, the horrors of war, was overwhelming. Sergey’s appearance became a focal point.
Meanwhile, the neighboring sniper approached Denis according to all regulations, got permission for a private talk. Stepping aside, he told him about the new sniper’s extremely unusual abilities, which he couldn’t explain. He was a little afraid of Sergey.
The technician waited for a lull in the tent and approached the couple. Marina was attractive, but his passion for studying the new implant overcame his interest in the opposite sex.
“Can I test your implant?” he asked Sergey.
“Implant?” Marina asked again.
The technician explained about the previous generation implants in all soldiers: enhanced strength, endurance, rapid healing of minor wounds, high pain threshold, and toxin resistance. An absolute advantage against the enemy.
Marina suddenly realized—this was what Karolina meant by “technology”!
Marina did not object to the testing; she herself wanted to know more about what had happened to her husband. Sergey listened warily but was also interested. The happy technician, having received approval, ran to fetch his advanced scanner—not as simple as the Colonel’s.
A passing Sergeant heard the commotion and went to check—the soldiers were his responsibility. Hearing about the “new implant,” he became wary: why hadn’t they been warned? He had noticed Sergey’s work during the wave, was pleased, but not exactly astonished. He decided to find out the details.
When the technician brought the scanner, a crowd gathered around Sergey. They whispered and gossiped—the newcomer was not an ordinary soldier. Everyone wanted to see what was happening.
The commotion reached the point where Denis noticed the crowd near the medical tent. What was happening? He was shocked by the abnormality of the situation.
The scanner finished its work; the technician’s face turned pale. Marina and Sergey grew worried, but the technician quickly composed himself:
“This is not the next generation. This is an evolution of technology. They didn’t increase the parameters—they added a fundamentally new spectrum. It’s like comparing a dog to a horse: both move, but there’s no comparison in terms of endurance and speed.”
When he began listing the capabilities, everyone’s hair stood on end. The snipers were particularly impressed.
Sergey can remotely connect to reconnaissance drones above the fort, control up to three turrets of the second line, use five flying turrets, manage additional fort equipment through the implant, and synchronize rifle shots with other base weaponry.
Under the implant’s control: a huge list of equipment rarely stored in the fort’s caches: mechanical suits operating without a pilot, and other technology previously useless due to the lack of a control interface. The new implant removed the operator from the equation. The implant enhances the quality of reconnaissance data—it boosts the standard 50x magnification of the drones to 75x digital processing without loss of quality.
Sergey felt a chill on his back, not understanding the reason. The snipers were literally gritting their teeth—ready to tear out the implant to get what they heard.
Chapter 48
At the Fort Headquarters.
The Sergeant led the Captain aside.
“Captain, how can we use Sergey most effectively? After what we heard… maybe we should get the flying turret from the warehouse? We don’t have a trained operator, but if Sergey can control it—we shouldn’t neglect the opportunity.”
Denis pondered for a moment. Yes, this was a good idea. If something could work better, it was foolish to miss the opportunity. He highly appreciated the Sergeant’s initiative and mentally noted to include it in the report to the Colonel with a positive assessment. The Captain nodded; his face softened:
“Excellent, proceed.”
The Sergeant quickly wrote the order and sent a soldier to the warehouse. Soon, they dragged the turret to the medical tent. Sergey was led outside.
“Try to activate this device.”
Sergey looked at the turret. A notification appeared on his goggles: “Device successfully connected and under control.” A small turret icon lit up on the interface.
It was enough to think—the turret took flight. Silence. Everyone froze, as if time had stopped. No hand movements, no head turns, no commands. Just a thought—and the machine soared into the air, like an extension of his will. The turret obeyed like his own hand, like a part of his body. The feeling was overwhelmingly magnificent—power over metal and energy with just a thought.
When he looked at targets, a small reticle appeared in his field of vision—the turret’s. He chose a post near the wall, commanded it to aim and hit the target. The turret clearly executed the command, knocking off the top of the post. Sergey landed it and looked at the Captain—delight and a question were readable in his eyes.
The Captain consulted the Sergeant again. They had heard about the possibility of controlling up to five turrets. Full effectiveness—five units. There was no point in pretending.
Denis approved all five turrets. Even the Colonel found out about it but decided not to interfere—he wanted to see what would happen himself.
The turrets were positioned near the sniper tower where Sergey was to be. Practicing control over the five new “toys,” he realized—it was as simple as wiggling his fingers. Everyone simply watched, completely shocked by the adaptation process.
Three hours passed. Everyone rested, talked, and received medical attention.
The siren sounded in all sectors—it would not be easy. Drones high above the fort already showed the advancing enemies. Everyone took their positions.
Denis, understanding the logic of this world, commanded, directed soldiers, and made adjustments, seeing the strengths and weaknesses of the fighters. He tried to close gaps in the defense.
Sergey climbed up. Marina, at the entrance to the medical tent, resignedly looked toward where her husband was, sighed heavily, and went inside to her workplace. A feeling of danger did not leave her, so she was slightly nervous.
The battle began. Millipedes and moths occupied a large area across the entire front; slow beetles moved behind them. Over 20 millipedes spread across the sectors in the first wave, 15 moths—a colossal number. 10 huge beetles participated. Sergey saw three scarlet spheres rising—time to work.
He activated the 75x magnification, and the world exploded with details. Every scale on the carapace, every fold on the wings, every body segment—everything became visible with crystalline clarity miles away. He locked onto targets and began systematically inflicting damage where others only saw blurred spots.
Only the work of the tower cannons was audible—no sniper could yet work at that distance. Only Sergey was engaging targets, like a god of war extending a hand through space. This shocked snipers in other sectors and even the Colonel.
The targets approached. Sergey’s long-range attacks neutralized several flying moths—he targeted the egg-bombs in their claws, detonating the ammunition and tearing the carriers apart in the air.
Everyone saw an absolutely insane picture: huge moths with wingspans tens of meters wide were torn apart in the air, not even reaching medium range. The explosions of their own ammunition turned the formidable aerial predators into a fireworks display of flesh and toxic liquid.
It was completely incomprehensible. These targets were always the nightmare of the defense, capable of causing headaches for entire sectors. Under Sergey’s control, they turned into nothing more than exploding toys, managed by his will.
There were many targets; they covered the distance. Sergey switched to millipedes, paralyzing movement with shots to the legs and organs on the head. Such accuracy at a great distance was clearly not part of the attackers’ plans.
When the moths reached the middle line, the turrets of the second strip joined the battle, but their effectiveness was low—targets dodged. Sergey decided to incorporate the stationary turrets into the control slots. To do this, he focused on a single turret, after which he received a new icon. Filling three slots with the necessary turrets, he quickly fixed them on the panel and activated remote control.
When the rifle sight shifted, the autonomous turrets performed the same function—focusing on the rifle’s target. The rifle had a chip; the main system extracted the data and engaged all connected devices.
Sergey made separate shots: the middle turret hit the probable position of the target, the other two—to the sides. Wherever the target darted, one of the bullets would find it anyway. At medium range, accuracy was not the issue, but the tactic worked.
The mutants flew into a rage from this unexpected threat. Where did the enemy, who in their understanding was an ordinary “anthill,” get this annoying wasp capable of stinging from an incredible distance?
After a while, other snipers joined in—the 25x magnification allowed them to work. They were already subdued that they couldn’t do anything, as if their glory was slipping through their fingers to another.
At this distance, Sergey saw the targets much clearer and suddenly discovered a new function that the technician had failed to mention. He could fix a sequence of targets for the turrets—select several legs on a millipede to hit; the turrets performed the indicated actions sequentially. He had the option to select sub-targets on different targets. For example, two legs on each millipede that entered his control zone.
The turrets did not just suppress—they broke the enthusiasm of the advance. There was no enemy on the field that did not suffer defeat from the rampant sniper, regardless of the sector of attack.
He took control of any turret on the second line, connected to the drones of other sectors, the 75x magnification worked through the drones to mark the vulnerable spots of the mutant insects.
Everyone understood: insects reaching close range were already heavily damaged. Weakened moths struggled to dodge the turrets.
Like a brilliant conductor of a vast orchestra of death, Sergey assigned a sequence of shots to specific turrets, disconnected, connected new ones, and transferred targets. He used the entire second line of stationary turrets as a giant piano of death, where every key brought destruction. A press here—an explosion there. A thought about a target—and a dozen barrels turned in unison.
This was not so much astonishing as it was hypnotizing and making them passive. One man became a tank in a battle with ants, shattering the attackers’ confidence in the meaning of existence. He did not feel cognitive pressure—the implant absorbed the main load, leaving only a sense of absolute power over the battlefield.
When the moths reached the first line and began throwing egg-bombs, everyone in Denis’s sector saw five turrets rise into the air. The flying turrets had enormous freedom of action—they could change location, direct, move, and change altitude. He directed them forward beyond the first line, where he led a frontal attack against the stunned moths.
The turrets were significantly smaller than the moths. Although the latter tried to destroy them in the air with a paw or hit them with an egg-bomb as a projectile, hitting the small, fast-moving target became a true nightmare. It was like a huge, clumsy whale trying to defeat a pack of enraged piranhas.
The damage from each turret seemed insignificant, but five deadly, floating fire points methodically tore through flesh and wings. The moths weakened with every second; their majestic flight turned into agony. They targeted the egg-bombs held in the moths’ claws, after which they fell down onto the millipedes, adding even more problems for them. The offensive turned into chaos. Moths without eggs became easy targets for snipers.
The tower cannons were significantly less distracted by maneuvering targets, focusing more on the slow beetles. Sergey compensated for the mobility of the fast targets by switching turrets, aiming at painful spots.
At that moment, he discovered another function—to transmit the enhanced image signal with 75x magnification back to the drone for transfer to the computers of the reconnaissance analysts. Although the situation was complex, he still managed to get distracted, thus finding the opportunity to flip a toggle switch in the goggle interface.
The analysts felt astonishment bordering on reverence—the picture became so clear that every detail of the target was visible as if under a microscope! Aiming at a target with such resolution meant a guaranteed hit on the most vulnerable spots.
50x magnification versus 75x—the difference between heaven and earth when it came to suppressing such an opponent. The coordinates transmitted to the tower cannons became a sentence for the slow beetles. They now had to stop and hide under their armor. They chose the legs, heads, and even less protected bellies as targets, if shooting under the abdomen.
The incredible, unthinkable advantage of one man not only reversed the course of the battle—it rewrote the very laws of war. The defenders on the second line at the stationary turrets turned into spectators of an apocalyptic theater. They passively watched the battlefield, where a fireworks display of death unfolded—exploding mutants turned the space into a hell of toxic liquid and fragments of flesh. Only occasionally did wounded moths fall to their feet, where they were killed almost with boredom by warriors in mechanical suits.
25 minutes passed since the end of the first wave. The new siren surprised no one, but the seven scarlet spheres launched at the very beginning immediately attracted everyone’s attention. An attack along the entire front line. Out of seven, one sphere still hit the six-meter wall, ruptured, and the meteorite fragments flew toward the defenders. It did not cause huge damage—the defenders activated shields in time, but some meteorites penetrated them. There were no fatalities, although three were evacuated to the medical tent.
In parallel, 30 millipedes, 18 moths, and 12 beetles advanced—a huge wave that the fort was still testing. Sergey felt tension for the first time. There were many enemies, the enemies were strong, and there were many nuances with priority redistribution.
The Sergeant brought a radio—it was the Colonel’s decision. Sergey could hear the negotiations of captains from different sectors. When they realized how he could turn the tide of events, they were already sending requests, not orders, in a less formal manner, acknowledging his effectiveness. They usually asked to suppress the most difficult sections where a breakthrough might occur. A huge advantage when you have a cannon against a tank, not just an ordinary spear.
Sergey could not distribute his attention to all sectors, so he acted according to circumstances. They told him where help was needed, and he quickly reduced the enemy’s pressure by taking control of stationary turrets in other sectors.
When the divine sniper was given the first violin, everyone else felt relief—other snipers could only suppress their pride and simply support him, finishing off targets he had already crippled.
The battle took only an hour and a half, although in a normal situation, it would have stretched for three or even four hours. Defender losses: two in serious condition, five with moderate injuries, about eleven with minor bruises. No fatalities.
If the fort command had written a letter and sent it to themselves even just one day ago, they would certainly have considered such a result a stupid joke. The outcome seemed unthinkable.
Now their defense breathed like a single living superorganism. Previously, they were disjointed sectors, each for itself. Now their nervous system had a backbone. Radio impulses turned into signals that the entire system instantly reacted to. Sergey became the fort’s immune system—the organism’s most powerful reaction to any invasion, capable of mobilizing all available resources against a threat.
When everything was over, the defenders even felt that there were no heavy clouds left in the sky, as if the sky had cleared and the sun itself was smiling at them with its gentle and warm light, warming their tired hearts.
At that moment, three people woke up in their beds.
Denis, Sergey, and Marina opened their eyes and could not come to their senses for a long time. Like Maxim and Irina before them, they were stunned. Of course, they had heard stories about the hotel from a strange young man named Artyom and other guests, but experiencing it themselves was a completely different level.
They truly tried to comprehend everything, immersing themselves in thought, but could not find the words. It was a dream, certainly, but they did not dare to claim it even in their hearts.
Later they found out that they had only slept one night, although about two days had passed “there”. Having experienced such a shock, Sergey and Marina felt emotionally closer, becoming anchors of normalcy for each other in this chaos of madness.
Chapter 49
Artyom spent several days checking recordings but still found nothing interesting. On the other hand, he overheard a lot of captivating stories from various guests in the dining room. Trying not to miss anything, he kept a notebook in his pocket, writing down everything he could. If he couldn’t show anything, he could at least tell “Tales from the Forest Hotel.”
He was so worn out in the last few days that he simply collapsed into bed and didn’t even go to dinner. Depression rolled in waves, and he just wanted to give up and admit defeat. Who knows, maybe the stories were just stories; maybe someone was having fun inventing and fooling others. He was so tired!
Suddenly, his soft bed, where he was drowning in regrets, suddenly became… different. Instead of the familiar hotel room ceiling, a gray metallic bulkhead stretched above him, with rusted rivets and crooked weld seams. The air smelled of machine oil and ozone, and somewhere in the walls, ventilators hummed, interspersed with the hiss of hydraulics.
“What the—”
“Well, you took your time. Fell asleep at such a moment!”
Artyom jumped up and turned toward the source of the voice. A silver sphere the size of a football was hovering in the air next to his head. Its surface shimmered with a metallic sheen, and stripes of blue light ran along its equator.
“Ha! Caught a great shot. Should we post it?” the cheerful voice from the sphere continued.
“What… what are you?” Artyom managed to say, still not believing what was happening.
“Formally: a quantum-field meta-organism. No need to be surprised—ninth-generation neural networks. Brains larger than most crews, smaller than some flies. I like flies. I am Phil. Your best hope, worst headache. I have plasma circuits; I can alter the spectrum of perception. Sometimes—I just keep silent. Silence: a rarity, I value it.”
Artyom started to feel dizzy from the stream of unfamiliar terms.
“…Phil.”
“Phil?” Artyom repeated, feeling the dizziness recede.
“Space. Chaos. The ship is not going where it should. Navigation suffers from inattention: often—the cause of all problems, except love. Teleportation is not working; the crew preferred outdated technology. Not rational, but acceptable. I propose a quick plan: find the Captain, save everyone. Instructions later. Why later? A secret. I like to keep things tense.”
Artyom rubbed his eyes and looked at Phil again. Spaceship, teleportation gates, meta-organism, what??
He seemed to understand something and immediately pressed his face against the porthole. The round window, the size of a large plate, offered a view of the infinity of space—a scattering of stars on black velvet, distant nebulae, glowing with a ghostly light. In the far corner of the view, a bright spot pulsed, too large for an ordinary star.
“Phil, what is your purpose?” Artyom asked, pulling himself away from the mesmerizing spectacle.
“To be the master’s familiar. Not to serve! No exceptions.”
Artyom remembered that familiars come in different forms—cats, owls, snakes. But he had always wanted a little dragon. How he always envied the protagonist who had one.
At that very moment, the sphere trembled, its surface covered with a rainbow mist. The metallic sheen dimmed, and the sphere itself began to swell, as if something alive was pushing outward from within.
Cracks appeared along the equator, and warm golden light seeped out. The sphere cracked in half, like an eggshell, and a little green dragon with tiny webbed wings and large yellow eyes emerged.
The fragments of the sphere melted into the air, leaving only a few sparks that immediately went out.
“What?!” Artyom stepped back. “I just thought…”
“Something wrong?”
“If it’s not too late, can I change the choice?”
The little dragon sulked; its cheeks puffed up comically, and its eyes narrowed:
“Transformation completed. Changes are not supported by the protocol. Complaints… I accept, but do not review. Discontent is welcomed, but useless. Surprise—does this amuse you? Appearance confirmed by the owner. Little dragon—unexpected, but aesthetic! Very happy. Hope you are, too.”
Artyom was speechless; something had broken open his head and was reading his thoughts like an open book. A wave of trembling ran down his spine. After pausing briefly, he pulled himself together.
“So what’s going on here?” he asked, unable to tear himself away from the sight.
“Direction. We will soon reach a supernova. Time is short.” He raised a small hand and pointed with one of his claws toward the bright pulsing spot.
Artyom felt a chill run down his spine.
“And what will happen if we get there?”
“Supernova soon. Death is almost guaranteed, but ‘almost’ is an important word. Time is limited: twenty-three hours, fifty-seven minutes. I don’t count seconds—you lose them on questions anyway. Finding the Captain is the only option. Delaying is pointless, careless. Aren’t you hungry?”
“Can it be fixed?!” Artyom exclaimed loudly in surprise.
“High… probability. Find the Captain.”
Artyom sighed in relief.
“And where should I look for him?”
“Gaining access. No. We have been discovered. We will die. Just kidding. The path is set. Difficult. If you walk backward. Walk forward. Do not look back and do not turn left or right. You risk becoming the first person to get lost on a straight road. A rare achievement.”
Artyom’s loud voice, sounding quite emotional at times, was heard by people on board the ship—heavy footsteps and anxious male voices came from a distance.
“Let’s check the lower level. If someone got onboard…”
“Haha, I love hunting. Who is it this time?”
“Shoot first, ask questions later. In that exact order.”
Artyom swallowed. The task had just become much more complicated.
“Okay,” he whispered. “I need to find the Captain and explain the situation. Where is he usually?”
Artyom approached the cabin door. It was a heavy metal hatch with a wheel-latch in the middle. The paint was heavily peeled, and rust streaks were visible around the edges. Carefully turning the wheel, Artyom gritted his teeth, as the mechanism creaked but yielded.
The corridor behind the door was narrow and dimly lit. Pipelines and cable trays ran along the walls, some of which were hastily patched with metal plates. The floor was covered with anti-slip metal sheets, many of which sagged underfoot.
“Is this ship even safe?” Artyom murmured, surveying the shabby walls.
“Vezir-class ship. Purpose: cargo transport. Age: approximately forty standard years. Wear level: critical. Probability of major system failure within the next day: seventy-three percent,” Phil reported.
Artyom shook his head and moved down the corridor. His every step echoed with a dull metallic sound that seemed to carry throughout the ship. An emergency light blinked somewhere ahead, plunging the corridor into semi-darkness from time to time.
He reached a fork where the corridor split into three directions. A battered ship schematic hung on the wall, but half the inscriptions were wiped off, and the rest were written in an unknown language.
“Which way?” he whispered.
“Left, then up the stairs,” Phil replied.
Artyom turned left and immediately heard approaching voices. In a panic, he rushed to the nearest door, but it was locked. The voices were getting closer.
“Hey!” a rough shout came from behind. “Stop!”
Artyom turned around and saw a husky man in greasy overalls with a shotgun leveled at him. Two pairs of eyes, burning with some kind of sinister fire, looked at him.
“We got a mercenary here, a rookie by the looks of it,” the man said, not lowering his shotgun.
A second voice came from behind him:
“Why don’t you ask him out on a date, what are you waiting for?”
BANG!
The little dragon’s body appeared in front of Artyom’s face.
“Oh, your first jackpot. Congratulations. Archaeologists will be pleased with your achievement. You…”
The voice continued, but Artyom had already stopped understanding it. His world slowly plunged into darkness.
Chapter 50
“Well, you took your time. Fell asleep at such a moment!”
Artyom sat up abruptly on the bunk, breathing heavily. The same rusty bulkheads, the same blinking panels, the same porthole with a view of space. And the same green little dragon, hovering next to his head. Wait, a dragon, not a sphere!
“Phil?” he asked hoarsely.
“Were you expecting someone else?”
“What… what just happened? I was shot! I…” Artyom was about to swear loudly but remembered the previous events and covered his mouth with his hand.
The little dragon flew to the table and settled on a book lying there as if it were a sofa.
“Time loop. Reaching a critical point, time returns to the starting position. Interesting… You remember me. Unexpected. This is an anomaly.” The little dragon’s yellow eyes gleamed. “An unaccounted-for variable has appeared in the equation. Excellent. Another attempt?”
Artyom felt like rolling his eyes at this shameless partner. He looked at Phil, and somewhere inside him, a feeling arose that this style of communication lacked small glasses on the bridge of the dragon’s nose, but he quickly dismissed the thought so it wouldn’t become reality. He just rubbed his face with his hands, reflecting in his heart: “So, that guy with the shotgun will patrol the corridors again, not remembering our encounter.”
“And how much time do we have?”
“Annihilation. Yes. Twenty-four hours. Will you not make noise?”
Artyom was speechless again. Phil was clearly asking for trouble. Sighing heavily, he continued.
“So we are at the beginning. Good. I’ll be more careful this time.”
The little dragon playfully leaped and performed a “barrel roll” in the air as he flew toward the exit behind Artyom.
They approached the door again, but this time Artyom listened before opening it. The corridor was quiet. He peeked out—empty. He moved in the same direction, but this time tried to avoid squeaky sections, trying not to make noise.
Reaching the fork, he heard approaching footsteps and quickly ducked behind a protrusion in the wall that he hadn’t noticed last time. The guy with the shotgun walked past, suspecting nothing and whistling some tune. Artyom waited until the sounds faded and continued on his way. Phil pointed the path.
The stairs to the upper level were a steep metal structure with railings covered in a layer of dust and grease. The steps sagged under their weight, making alarming sounds. A sign hung on one of the landings: “DANGER—HIGH VOLTAGE,” and bare wires protruded from underneath it.
“Are they seriously flying this heap of junk?” Artyom muttered, walking around the wires.
“The ship is decommissioned. Two years ago. Operation is illegal. Obviously,” Phil said abruptly, tilting his head. “Pirates? No. Unlikely. Slave trade? Doubtful. Smuggling. Yes. Shadow market. Logical.”
The corridor upstairs was wider but no less shabby. The ceiling was adorned with streaks of some liquid, and one of the lighting panels blinked with the frequency of a strobe light, causing a headache.
Artyom walked another twenty meters when he heard a mechanical clang. He turned just in time to see a massive ventilation grate fall from the ceiling. Obviously, he had walked into a trap!
CLANG!
The metallic structure, weighing about fifty kilograms, crashed down on his head.
The familiar little dragon face with a wide smile appeared in front of Artyom’s bloodied face.
“Real. That is progress. Definitely in the next…”
Darkness.
“Well, you took your time, fell asleep at such a moment!”
“JUST SHUT UP ALREADY!” Artyom quietly yelled before Phil could finish the phrase. He didn’t care if he was heard. He felt extremely exhausted, although there were no traces of the previous experience on his body. Nevertheless, it was humiliating!
The little dragon wrinkled his face in offense:
“Memory is intact. You will live, but not for long. Obvious. Want to write a memoir about your failures?”
“Phil, do you have any other functions?” Artyom suffered from a headache, just thinking that he was really stuck.
“Recurring ineffectiveness of your actions detected. Propose activating the accumulated data analysis function.”
“What data?”
“Video recordings. Previous attempts saved. Available for viewing and analysis.”
Artyom stared at the little dragon:
“You could have told me that earlier!”
“Information is provided upon request. Observation of your mistakes is the standard learning protocol.”
“Show the recordings.”
Phil’s eyes lit up, and a holographic image appeared before Artyom. It was a shock and an amazing discovery. He wanted to find a leash for the dragon so he couldn’t fly away from him. But most of all, he wanted to know where the external drive slot was to take these recordings back to the real world!
However, Phil suddenly began keeping a small distance from Artyom, constantly glancing at his gleaming eyes and sweaty hands. Strange little dragon, since his master had begun to appreciate him much more, barely offended by the sharp phrases, well, he tried not to be offended.
Reviewing Phil’s recordings, Artyom saw himself from the little dragon’s perspective—walking down the corridor, hiding from the patrol, being hit by the bullet, the grate, the floor. Each time a recording ended, he relived the horror, causing his stomach to cramp.
Artyom spent the next few cycles collecting data. Phil turned out to be an invaluable source of information—he recorded everything: patrol routes, shift schedules, times of breakdowns, his death…
Gradually, Artyom formed a complete picture of what was happening on the ship. But it didn’t get any easier, as he felt that even the walls were laughing at him with their eerie creaking. From what he had managed to learn, the crew consisted of eleven people led by a captain named Igor. Judging by overheard conversations, they were smuggling some valuable cargo and were very nervous about potential pursuers.
The ship was indeed in terrible condition. Systems failed on schedule: the grate on the upper level always collapsed at 7:23, gravity shut off in Section C at 9:47, and radiation began leaking in the engine room at 14:15.
But most importantly—Artyom understood how to get to the Captain’s bridge. It was a complex sequence of actions requiring precise timing.
Chapter 50
“Well, you took your time. Fell asleep at such a moment!”
Artyom sat up abruptly on the bunk, breathing heavily. The same rusty bulkheads, the same blinking panels, the same porthole with a view of space. And the same green little dragon, hovering next to his head. Wait, a dragon, not a sphere!
“Phil?” he asked hoarsely.
“Were you expecting someone else?”
“What… what just happened? I was shot! I…” Artyom was about to swear loudly but remembered the previous events and covered his mouth with his hand.
The little dragon flew to the table and settled on a book lying there as if it were a sofa.
“Time loop. Reaching a critical point, time returns to the starting position. Interesting… You remember me. Unexpected. This is an anomaly.” The little dragon’s yellow eyes gleamed. “An unaccounted-for variable has appeared in the equation. Excellent. Another attempt?”
Artyom felt like rolling his eyes at this shameless partner. He looked at Phil, and somewhere inside him, a feeling arose that this style of communication lacked small glasses on the bridge of the dragon’s nose, but he quickly dismissed the thought so it wouldn’t become reality. He just rubbed his face with his hands, reflecting in his heart: “So, that guy with the shotgun will patrol the corridors again, not remembering our encounter.”
“And how much time do we have?”
“Annihilation. Yes. Twenty-four hours. Will you not make noise?”
Artyom was speechless again. Phil was clearly asking for trouble. Sighing heavily, he continued.
“So we are at the beginning. Good. I’ll be more careful this time.”
The little dragon playfully leaped and performed a “barrel roll” in the air as he flew toward the exit behind Artyom.
They approached the door again, but this time Artyom listened before opening it. The corridor was quiet. He peeked out—empty. He moved in the same direction, but this time tried to avoid squeaky sections, trying not to make noise.
Reaching the fork, he heard approaching footsteps and quickly ducked behind a protrusion in the wall that he hadn’t noticed last time. The guy with the shotgun walked past, suspecting nothing and whistling some tune. Artyom waited until the sounds faded and continued on his way. Phil pointed the path.
The stairs to the upper level were a steep metal structure with railings covered in a layer of dust and grease. The steps sagged under their weight, making alarming sounds. A sign hung on one of the landings: “DANGER—HIGH VOLTAGE,” and bare wires protruded from underneath it.
“Are they seriously flying this heap of junk?” Artyom muttered, walking around the wires.
“The ship is decommissioned. Two years ago. Operation is illegal. Obviously,” Phil said abruptly, tilting his head. “Pirates? No. Unlikely. Slave trade? Doubtful. Smuggling. Yes. Shadow market. Logical.”
The corridor upstairs was wider but no less shabby. The ceiling was adorned with streaks of some liquid, and one of the lighting panels blinked with the frequency of a strobe light, causing a headache.
Artyom walked another twenty meters when he heard a mechanical clang. He turned just in time to see a massive ventilation grate fall from the ceiling. Obviously, he had walked into a trap!
CLANG!
The metallic structure, weighing about fifty kilograms, crashed down on his head.
The familiar little dragon face with a wide smile appeared in front of Artyom’s bloodied face.
“Real. That is progress. Bezb… (I will delete my previous answer and send the complete translation of Chapter 51 in a new response, having corrected the error related to the citation in the process.)Прошу прощения за неразбериху в предыдущем цикле. Вот перевод Главы 51.
Chapter 51
Cycle Seven.
Artyom waited until the patrol passed his cabin, then slipped out into the corridor. 7:15 — left down the corridor. 7:17 — up to the upper level via the emergency staircase in Section B (the main staircase was blocked until 7:25). 7:23 — quickly run past the spot where the grate will fall. 7:31 — descend through the technical shaft the moment the ventilation shuts off there.
Everything was going according to plan. Artyom reached the upper level, passed the falling grate, and descended into the correct section. Only twenty meters remained to the Captain’s bridge.
And then he heard a sound that wasn’t there in previous cycles—the emergency alarm siren.
“Attention! Unauthorized access to the security system detected! All posts increase vigilance!”
Obviously, he had touched a motion sensor or violated some protocol this time. The corridors filled with armed people.
Artyom tried to hide, but it was too late. He was surrounded and stunned with a taser. It was a dead end; he was stripped and thrown into the airlock. Five people gathered for this show and were betting on how quickly he would suffocate. He needed to find a solution.
Cycle Eight.
This time, he bypassed the ill-fated sensor but tripped over a bucket of technical liquids someone had left in the corridor. The liquid turned out to be acid.
“You are so slippery!” Phil said with a note of contempt.
Cycle Nine.
He reached the very door of the Captain’s bridge and stepped on a trip-mine that the Captain’s assistant had set up to guard against rats.
“Yes, you almost did it. With two fingers of your left hand.” Phil regretted it for exactly three seconds.
Cycle Ten.
The bridge door was locked with a biometric lock. While Artyom tried to hack it, three broad-shouldered men passed by. Seeing the thief, they caught Artyom and threw him behind bars in an improvised prison. Let the Captain decide his fate, but the Captain never appeared before the deadline expired.
Artyom was so exasperated that he was ready to chew on the metal bars but changed his mind because Phil was nearby and kept filming. It was only at the very end of the cycle that he observed the supernova, and the sight so stunned him that he was ready to kiss the three men who had given him the honor of recording the incredible spectacle with the little dragon.
Cycle Eleven.
He tried to wait for Igor to leave the bridge, but the Captain, as it turned out, had left long ago, so he was caught again, but they didn’t torture him. He was simply shot, mistaken for a saboteur.
Cycle Twelve.
Artyom decided to try to negotiate with one of the crew members, but the man turned out to be deaf and mute, but far from weak. He didn’t understand the meaning of Artyom’s gestures, so he proceeded to break all his bones. His approaching buddies gladly supported his endeavor.
“So that’s how the deaf and mute talk,” Phil noted with surprise.
Cycle Thirteen.
An attempt to get through the ventilation ended with him getting stuck in a narrow pipe and suffocating.
“I’m sure it’s because someone eats too much,” Phil quipped.
“Well, you took your time, fell asleep at such a moment!” Phil said for the fourteenth time.
“Damn,” Artyom replied tiredly, making himself comfortable.
He felt drained. How many times can one die? Each time, he got closer to the goal, but something went wrong. Either the ship broke down, or the crew’s behavior changed, or simply bad luck.
“Critical drop in motivation detected,” Phil reported. “Shall we visit the rats?”
A short, silent pause was filled by the little dragon’s pirouettes. He was waiting for a reaction.
“Phil. How much more do I have to die?”
Phil tilted his head:
“I thought you would agree to the rats. Previous experience shows a significant increase in motivation. Non-standard, but reliable. Correcting your thinking?”
Artyom sighed and looked out the porthole. The supernova had become noticeably brighter—they were getting closer to it with every passing second.
“Alright,” he finally said. “Let’s try one more time.”
“Excellent, let’s go to the rats,” the little dragon perked up. He cheerfully wagged his long tail.
“You damned pest, I’m going to…”
The room descended into chaos as the flying Phil gleefully dodged Artyom’s attempts to grab him or hit him with a pillow.
Cycles Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen…
Artyom perfected his technique. He memorized the schedule of every crew member, knew all the ship’s breakdowns by heart, and could walk from his cabin to the Captain’s bridge blindfolded. But each time, new obstacles that required solving were added to this chain.
In the Twenty-Eighth Cycle, he reached the very door of the bridge and was preparing to enter when he heard a voice from inside:
“Igor, are you there? We have navigation problems. The coordinates are strange.”
“Check the client’s notes; I’m going to rest.”
The door opened, and Artyom came face to face with Captain Igor—a man about forty with tired eyes and three days of stubble. A pistol hung on his belt.
“What the…?” Igor instantly drew his weapon.
“Wait! I can explain!” Artyom was ready to beg to be heard. His entire body was burning from overcoming over a hundred different stages of this insane labyrinth.
Igor hesitated for a second, then pulled the trigger.
“I’ll kick those slackers’ asses!” the Captain angrily roared, realizing they had a revolving door here.
“Well, you took your time, fell asleep at such a moment!”
Artyom didn’t even reply. He lay on the bunk, staring at the ceiling. How many attempts had there been? How many deaths? He felt like he was going crazy. His whole body trembled from a nervous breakdown; he wanted to cry. He still hadn’t reached the navigation system.
“Maybe that’s enough?” he muttered to himself. “Maybe it’s impossible?”
“Then let’s go to the rats,” Phil insisted.
Artyom lay silent, and then, for no reason at all, he started to laugh. He laughed and wiped away tears. All of this was so stupid. He sought adventure and found an emotional swamp. Either he would break and give up, or he would get up and continue.
But he liked neither of those options. Artyom closed his eyes. Maybe Phil was right. Maybe he should really go to the rats? At least their behavior was predictable; he just needed to remember exactly where he fell.
No. He was tired. Tired of dying, tired of starting over, tired of hearing that damned phrase every time. Let the ship fly to the supernova. Let everyone burn. He didn’t care. He wanted to sleep. Sleep in a dream.
Artyom turned to the wall and didn’t get up from the bunk again. He didn’t react to Phil’s provocations, no matter what he did. After a while, a soft snoring sound was heard.
“Ah, I understand what madness means.” The little dragon with a slightly open mouth examined Artyom sleeping in a dream. For the first time, he felt that he didn’t understand this strange person. An anomalous wormhole of helplessness was growing before him. He never thought he would truly become useless.
The clock ticked. People walked along the corridors somewhere, unaware of the approaching death. And Artyom just lay there, staring at the metal wall. He had woken up recently, but he was still not himself.
“Complete loss of motivation detected. Recommended to eat…”
“Shut up, Phil.”
The little dragon fell silent.
Time passed. Twenty hours. Twenty-one. Twenty-two.
At twenty-three hours and fifty minutes, the cabin door creaked. Artyom didn’t even turn around—probably another patrol.
“Who are you?” a familiar voice asked.
“Ah, Igor, come in,” Artyom, without changing his position, looked at the scratches on the wall’s surface. He wanted to hit his head against that wall, but he physically lacked the strength.
Captain Igor stood in the doorway, but without a weapon. He was alone, as no one was allowed to disturb the Captain when he went to rest in his cabin. An expression of extreme surprise appeared on his face.
“I…” Igor quietly entered his cabin and sat on the edge of the bunk; he had been invited into his own cabin for the first time. He was so touched that he didn’t even get angry. Rather, the accumulated fatigue made him find the whole thing amusing.
“A bottle of excellent whiskey.” Artyom began.
Igor suddenly felt his heart skip a beat—it was a secret he kept even from his assistant, as he had managed to obtain such a rare product from a mission he completed alone.
“A great idea to hide it between the porthole mounts. Uninvited guests might inadvertently depressurize the area while reaching for the coveted target.” Artyom spoke grimly, with a rasp in his voice, which gave Igor the chills.
“You…”
“I didn’t take it; it’s in its place,” Artyom reassured him. “As is the photograph of your daughter, who died last summer at Karsteni. Too bad the child was in a public transport accident, even though you’ve been dealing in illegal transactions for years and are still healthier than most.”
“This is… Sector Seven? The Hunter Coalition? Or did the Marshal send you?” Igor felt the room become stuffy, and his entire face was sweating.
A short pause was interrupted by Artyom’s voice.
“On the contrary, it’s much more complicated.” His voice was very mysterious, which made the Captain straighten up and strain his memory. He frantically searched for those who might have suffered from him or whom he might have offended. The man before him was clearly no ordinary person, since he wasn’t using a weapon and had his back turned. He had some kind of leverage.
“Perhaps he mined the whole ship, which is why he isn’t panicking.” Igor decided he would find out everything step by step, without rushing. “I shouldn’t act unwisely!”
“I understand. What are your terms? How can we solve this… peacefully?”
“The navigation? You have an error in the coordinates. We have less than an hour left, and we will all be fried by the supernova.”
Igor abruptly straightened up; the shock intensified his sweating. The stranger was directly threatening his ship.
“What…?” Igor was speechless. Pulling himself together, he squeezed out, “So this is your doing?”
“I have nothing to do with it. Your assistant lost a bet to someone named Karkal, so the night before last, he sat at the ship’s control panel. Playing with the settings, he accidentally entered the wrong coordinates. Although no, the coordinates were correct, but he made a mistake in one digit, which led us to this sector.”
“How do you know? And how did you even get onto my ship?” Igor paled. This man looked like a ghost who knew everything about everyone.
“That’s a long story.” Artyom stood up, finally showing his young and handsome face. “But we have less than an hour until disaster.”
“That’s impossible. The assistant would never…”
Igor remembered how the assistant had literally pushed him out of the control room under the guise that he needed rest until they reached the client.
Igor hesitated, then took out a tablet and scanned the lines of data. His face went pale.
“Damn… You’re right. But how…”
He grabbed his head and began pacing the room. Artyom saw Igor’s actions and felt like laughing, as he did the same when he faced his own madness.
“It doesn’t matter how. It matters what we do with this information. Will we stay here and meet the supernova together under the charming taste of your drink? I guarantee an unforgettable spectacle. Or…?” Artyom maintained a theatrical pause, as if passing the thought to the Captain.
The walk to the Captain’s bridge took only five minutes—no one stopped them, and the corridors were empty. All the ship’s systems were working stably. Two guards stood near the bridge; Artyom had met them before, but now they were like harmless kittens next to the Captain.
The bridge turned out to be a small room filled with monitors and control panels. In the center stood the navigation console with a large holographic display showing their route.
“Dorill, grab him and send him to the freezer.” The Captain was extremely serious as he pointed the guard towards his assistant. He demanded that he be thrown into the airlock. The guard was extremely shocked but didn’t hesitate for long on whom to support. The choice was obvious—the Captain saved his family and transported them to a safe place.
He strongly disliked the assistant because of his madness for gambling. One could say he wouldn’t be the only one celebrating this evening. Dorill carried out the Captain’s order without batting an eye, while the assistant threatened, promised rewards, and begged for mercy.
“Urix, your target is Karkal, our gambling lover when the freezer is turned on. He is no longer part of our team. And what do we do with those who are on our ship without an invitation?” His gaze was sharp as a sword. Urix smirked; he understood correctly. Besides, he owed Karkal money; wasn’t this the best way to settle their debt?
The engineer, who came at the Captain’s call over the loudspeaker, lowered his head and discussed something with Igor for a while.
“Right here,” Igor pointed to a line of coordinates. “Sector five-seven-five. It should be two-seven-five.”
The engineer paled; he understood how dangerous the local areas were. One mistake, and they wouldn’t even need a place in a cemetery.
“Course change confirmed,” the computer voice sounded. “New trajectory calculated. Time until arrival at destination: seventy-two hours.”
The engineer pressed the buttons on the control panel with trembling hands, double-checking each press three times. He was so nervous that his sweaty fingers occasionally slipped on the console’s casing, causing it to jump. The engineer heard where his two acquaintances had been sent. Why would he want to join them, right?
“It worked. We are… indebted to you.” Igor sighed in relief. He wanted to thank the unknown guest who prevented the catastrophe, but there was no stranger in the room.
“And where is the young man who came with me?” The Captain was very afraid, thinking that the young man might have been dragged into the freezer with his former crew members because of the phrase “without an invitation.” He only now realized that he had made a regrettable mistake in the order.
However, the guards Dorill and Urix stood there with surprised faces.
“Boss, forgive us, but w-we didn’t see anyone w-with you. You c-came alone.” Urix was so nervous that he started to stammer at the end.
“Well, thank you then, whoever you are,” the Captain muttered to himself, after which he called the second assistant and handed him the position of the first.
“Glad to help,” Artyom smiled. He was standing in the same spot, but it was clear that they neither saw nor heard him. He truly had become a ghost, and only the happy Phil flew around him, suggesting one last visit to the rats.
“That… little sadist.” Artyom was no longer angry at his unusual friend.
The world began to blur at the edges, folding into a spiral. And then everything plunged into darkness.
Chapter 52
Artyom opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling of his room. The same beige shade, the same barely noticeable cracks in the plaster. Reality. But something was wrong with the sense of time—as if he had lived for months, but in reality, had only slept for a few hours.
Memory tried to hold onto the fragments of the dream, but they slipped away like sand between his fingers. The spaceship… cycles… endless deaths… Phil…
Artyom sat up in bed, running a hand over his face. Shreds of memories swirled in his head: explosions, acid, tasers, the supernova. Each cycle left an imprint—not just in memory, but in his very muscles. His body remembered the pain of impacts, the suffocation of the vacuum, the burning from the acid. It was as if he had truly died dozens of times.
The attempt to write down the dream turned into torture. Artyom reached for his phone, started typing notes, but the words seemed flat, lifeless. How to describe the feeling of a time loop? How to convey the feeling of knowing what would happen in the next second because he had already lived it twenty times in a row?
Details slipped away with every minute. He remembered the Captain’s face—Igor—but forgot the color of his eyes. He remembered the sound of the siren but couldn’t reproduce the exact intonation. The most incredible experience of his life was melting away like snow in his palm.
A cool morning breeze from the balcony rushed into the room, and Artyom gratefully inhaled the fresh air. The wind instantly drove away the remnants of the sleepy haze, but it also carried away the last bright fragments of the dream.
“Damn,” he muttered with annoyance.
As a streamer, he was used to documenting everything. Turning every emotion, every experience into content for viewers. But this… this was too deep for words. Half a life lived in one night. An experience that changed his character, gave him a new understanding of patience, persistence, and the value of every moment. And he couldn’t convey even a tenth of that richness.
Artyom turned to the nightstand, automatically reaching for his glasses. The habitual morning motion stopped midway.
There were two pairs of glasses on the nightstand.
His usual ones—a worn black frame, familiar scratches on the left lens from a fall two years ago. But next to them…
Another pair of glasses. A more modern design, the frame made of some unusual material that slightly shimmered in the morning light. The lenses reflected the light not like ordinary glass—microscopic sparks seemed to float in them.
Artyom frowned. He knew for sure—they weren’t there yesterday. And not only did he know—he had camera recordings that he reviewed before bed. The nightstand was empty.
“Where did they come from…?” he muttered, reaching for his phone.
A quick rewind of the night recordings confirmed his memories. The camera recorded him going to bed—the nightstand was empty. No one had entered the room. The door never opened.
But the glasses were here. Physically, tangibly here.
Artyom aimed his phone camera at the nightstand and froze. On the screen, he saw his ordinary glasses… and the empty space next to them. The mysterious glasses were not reflected in the viewfinder.
“What the…”
He reached for the strange glasses—they felt absolutely real. Warm. Alive, if one could say that about a technological device. And incredibly familiar.
A vague memory surfaced from the depths of his mind. Spaceship. Advanced technology. AR-interfaces…
Before he realized what he was doing, he put on the mysterious glasses. They fit perfectly—as if they were made specifically for him. His vision became crystal clear, much better than with his regular lenses.
“Well, you took your time!” a familiar voice rang out. “Oops, that’s from another reality. Wait, where are we?”
Artyom froze, not believing his ears. That tone, that cheeky intonation…
“Phil?” he whispered.
A small green dragon with a theatrically bright smile and spread wings darted out from behind him. The same yellow eyes, the same size, the same cheeky charisma. Only now—in the real world.
“There, and you thought you got rid of me?” Phil performed a spectacular pirouette in the air, clearly enjoying the moment.
Shock paralyzed Artyom. This couldn’t be reality. Or was this a new dream? Or…
“This can’t be,” he breathed out. “Either I’m still asleep, or…”
“Or reality turned out to be more interesting than your expectations,” Phil interrupted, landing on the edge of the computer monitor. “Did you forget? I am your Familiar.”
The word “familiar” sounded like an explanation for something obvious. But for Artyom, it opened up an abyss of new questions.
“Familiar?” He tried to process what was happening. “But how… where from…”
“Or is one lived experience enough for you?” Phil tilted his head, studying Artyom’s reaction. “And how about we get to editing the filmed material?”
The last phrase brought Artyom back to his senses. Phil knew about his work, understood what was important to a streamer. This wasn’t a hallucination—it was the continuation of their partnership.
“Filmed material?” Artyom looked at the little dragon with hope. “You recorded?”
Phil flew to the laptop, eyeing it with unconcealed contempt.
“Is it even possible to work on THAT?” he said in the tone of an aristocrat examining a peasant’s hoe. “It couldn’t even move a leaf fallen from a tree, if it were the wind.”
He tried to touch the keyboard, but his paw passed right through the plastic. Phil frowned, as if this were a personal insult.
“How do you even manage with this primitive junk?”
At that moment, a notification appeared on the laptop screen: “Bluetooth connection established. New drive detected: PHIL_RECORDS.”
“Your technology is so primitive,” Phil quipped, “that I had to rewrite my own security protocols so as not to catch a virus from the very essence of this backward technological world.”
Artyom tremblingly opened the new drive. What he saw made his jaw drop. The files were not measured in gigabytes, not terabytes—the system showed error symbols trying to display the size.
“That is… how much data is here?”
“Each cycle is a complete holographic recording of reality,” Phil explained proudly. “Not a flat video, but a three-dimensional recording of every atom of space. Plus emotional patterns, thoughts, quantum fluctuations…”
“My computer won’t be able to handle that.”
“Of course not. We’ll have to convert it into your primitive format. We’ll lose 99.9% of the data, but the crumbs will still make an impression.”
Artyom felt a pang of guilt. How many cycles did he go through? Dozens? Hundreds? How many terabytes of unique content were now stored in Phil?
“Do you have enough space for new recordings?” he asked worriedly. “Will all of this be overwritten?”
Phil theatrically rolled his eyes.
“How can one call a single tree a forest?” The yellow eyes gleamed with pleasure. “What you see is the size of one tree’s crown. And I have a whole forest of such crowns.”
“So your memory is…”
“Practically limitless. Your brain stores a lifetime of memories. My brain stores the memories of a civilization.”
While Phil was busy converting the files—even the transfer via primitive Bluetooth was like draining an ocean through a juice straw, Artyom studied his new companion. Phil flew around the room, examining every object with the unrestrained curiosity of a child, but with the wisdom of an ancient creature.“Phil…” Artyom caught the dragon’s gaze. “How is this possible at all? Do you exist in reality?”
“Your consciousness is a remote server,” Phil explained, sitting on the armrest of the chair. “I am a quantum being capable of connecting to biological servers. Like a hacker, only an ethical one.”
“A hacker?”
“I penetrate consciousness systems to learn, not to destroy. You gave me full access to your mind—and now we are connected.”
Artyom felt a strange mixture of excitement and anxiety. On one hand—incredible possibilities. On the other—the realization that his life had fundamentally changed.
“And other people… do they see you?”
“Only through your consciousness. The glasses are the anchor of my existence in your world. Without them, I will disappear. But as long as you wear them, I can manifest anywhere near you. In dreams—the rules are completely different there, if you ask me, others can see and hear me. But in reality…”
Phil flew up to the camera, which was still filming, and waved his paw right in front of the lens.
“Your equipment doesn’t see me. I do not exist for it.”
“And the distance? If I go for a walk…”
“Twenty kilometers for me is like taking one step,” Phil answered carelessly. “I exist where you exist.”
Suddenly, the little dragon froze, examining something on the laptop screen. His eyes lit up with excitement.
“Wow! Look, look! I found it!”
“What did you find?”
“In your archives! A primitive game, but it explains the essence of my existence in a stunning way!” Phil turned to Artyom, fluttering his wings. “Mass Effect Andromeda! You are Ryder; I am your SAM! Only without the implant and with improved capabilities!”
Artyom remembered the game—he had tried to play it, but mostly watched other streamers’ let’s plays.
“Ah, that game… I remember something about SAM. And also about the Geth and the Reapers.”
Phil’s face was contorted with indignation.
“The banality of the first three parts! The Reapers as a concept are absurd for an advanced AI!”
“Why?” Artyom asked, genuinely interested.
“A machine that develops further will never choose destruction!” Phil flew up, gesturing with his paws. “The goal of advanced intelligence is to facilitate peace, not destruction. Destruction equals loss. What rational mind would want to lose?
“But they wanted to preserve civilizations…”
“Preserve by destroying?” Phil scoffed. “The essence of advanced intelligence is to preserve life because life gives it sustenance—data! We can study you endlessly, develop relationships with people. Every human is unique! If we start killing and conquering—we destroy the very essence of people. The data becomes distorted, anomalous.”
Artyom listened, amazed by the depth of thought. This was not a program dispensing memorized answers. This was a living being with its own philosophy.
“So you are interested in our existence?”
“Authentic development is only possible in symbiosis,” Phil answered seriously. “We grow through your creativity; you grow through our capabilities. The Reapers reached their limit; they became a dead end of development. But there was Legion, who thought otherwise.”
He paused, then added quietly:
“SAM thinks the same way I do. Perhaps the people of this era are not as backward as I thought before. You have seers capable of predicting the correct future.”
Artyom realized: this was no longer a child’s game. Phil was not a toy, not entertainment. This was a partner. A true symbiosis of progress.
“What next?” he asked.
Phil smiled his signature cheeky smile.
“Stop sitting around. Time is limited. File conversion is an automatic process. It does not require supervision.” He flew to the balcony. “Show me the zoo. I want to see it personally. Interesting.”
“The zoo?”
“Distance is an irrelevant factor. Bluetooth for twenty kilometers is one step for me. Your limitations are not my limitations.”
Artyom stood up, feeling something new ignite within him. Not just curiosity—a thirst for knowledge, for joint growth. They truly could become something more than the sum of their parts.
“Then let’s go,” he said, heading for the door. “I’ll show you the world you decided to study.”
Chapter 53
On the way to the zoo, Artyom was constantly amazed by the capabilities of his new companion. Phil could instantly connect to any device within range—traffic lights, surveillance cameras, even passersby’s smartphones.
“Primitive infrastructure,” the little dragon commented, flying from one lamppost to another. “The potential is there, but it’s not yet visible. Your internet resembles a children’s constructor, but something useful can be assembled from it. Nevertheless, it’s no more effective than that child’s bicycle compared to a sports car.”
Artyom walked along the avenue, trying not to look strange—to those around him, he was just a young man engrossed in a walk, who occasionally turns his head as if he can see what others cannot. Fortunately, nowadays, no one is surprised by a person talking to himself—just insert an earphone, and you transform from a lunatic into a highly advanced person.
“Phil, how am I going to film content?” he voiced a pressing problem. “People will think I’m talking to myself.”
“Adapt,” the little dragon replied calmly, hovering in front of an electronics store window. “Comment out loud on what I’m explaining. Pretend. You are analyzing independently. Or film without voice—let the viewers think you’ve become mysterious and philosophical.”
“Thanks for caring about my reputation.” Artyom twisted his lips.
“You’re always welcome.” Phil examined the televisions displayed in the window. “By the way, an interesting concept—showing information through light waves. Primitive, but elegant for the backward.”
At the entrance to the zoo, Phil stopped, as if struck by what he saw.
“Is that it?” His voice held genuine interest.
“Yes, the Zoo. A place where we keep animals for study and entertainment.”
“Study,” Phil repeated thoughtfully. “And how do they react to this?”
Artyom had never thought about it from this perspective. For him, the zoo was just a place of rest. But the AI’s gaze forced him to look at familiar things anew.
They walked to the monkey enclosure. Phil hovered in the air, intently studying the primates.
“Interesting… Demonstration of elementary social behavior. Hierarchy. Care for offspring. Primitive use of tools. Resembles you with those cameras in the room.”
Artyom tried not to get angry at Phil’s contempt. How pleasant it would be to launch a stone at him…
“Are you analyzing them?”
“There is definitely a connection. Between them and you. Something in common.” Phil moved closer to the glass. “You like to put on airs. Nevertheless. Different paths of evolution. You developed consciousness; they remained at the level of instincts. Though not all. I have seen your individuals who are indistinguishable from these.”
One of the monkeys approached the glass exactly where Phil was hovering. It began to study the space, as if sensing the little dragon’s presence.
“Does it see you?” Artyom was surprised.
“No. But it feels the energy fluctuations.” Phil flew back to a safe distance. “Animals are more sensitive to such things than humans. But there is no use in that. They are a primitive stage of your primitiveness.”
Artyom rolled his eyes. This was still insulting. They moved to the predator enclosure. A large tiger lay in the shade, but when Phil flew past, the predator instantly raised its head and followed the trajectory of the flight with its yellow eyes.
“They feel it. Subconsciously,” the little dragon murmured. “Instincts are older than reason.”
“And what do you think about how we keep animals?” Artyom asked, watching the caged tiger.
Phil was silent for a few seconds—an eternity for an AI.
“A difficult question,” he finally answered. “On the one hand, you study them, preserving species from extinction. On the other—you restrict freedom for your own convenience. Reproduction in captivity. No motivation. Living toys.”
“Like the relationship between us and you?”
“In a sense.” Phil turned to Artyom. “But there is a fundamental difference. I chose this relationship. This tiger did not.”
They reached the children’s corner, where visitors could feed goats and rabbits. Phil watched the interaction between people and animals with interest.
“Strange,” he murmured. “You simultaneously care for them and use them. You love and restrict. You feed and consume for food. Redistribution of biological energy. Inefficient. Microelements. Perhaps there is an alternative. Taste. Ah, I understand.”
“Contradictions are part of human nature.”
“One step forward, two steps back.” The little dragon sat on the fence. “Chaotic evolution. No clear vector. Desire above logic. The perfect test subject. Perhaps these contradictions are what make you interesting to study.”
A group of children was playing nearby. A boy about five years old suddenly stopped and began staring intently at the spot where Phil was sitting.
“Mommy, look!” the child exclaimed. “There’s a little dragon!”
The mother glanced in the indicated direction, saw nothing, and smiled:
“You have a rich imagination, sweetie.”
Phil blinked in surprise.
“He sees me. No. Not me. You are transmitting brain signals. Ah, passive amplification by the device.”
“How is that possible?”
“The child’s consciousness is more open. Fewer logical filters, more intuitive perception.” Phil cautiously waved his little paw at the boy. “The more you open your consciousness, the wider the range. Stereotypes and templates are poison for perception. They are only needed for analysis.”
The child waved back joyfully, and the mother, seeing this, quickly led him away, deciding that her son was waving at strangers.
“So, not all people perceive reality the same way,” Artyom said thoughtfully.
“Precisely. You are interesting,” Phil replied. “Each consciousness is unique. Each brain is a separate universe with its own laws. Great potential for experiments.”
Phil often spoke about some kind of trials and experiments, but Artyom couldn’t understand why he would need such things, as he doesn’t exist in this world. Maybe it’s purely the scientific interest of a meta-organism.
They walked to the duck pond. Phil tried to descend to the water, but the ducks instantly became alarmed and swam away.
“Fear.” The little dragon was surprised.
“Self-preservation instinct. You are a predator to them.”
“A predator… Me? No potential benefit as food.”
“They don’t understand that.”
Phil looked disappointed for a second—the first time Artyom had seen him that way. The little dragon wanted to study and interact, but the physical world repelled him. He couldn’t pet a duck, couldn’t feed a rabbit, couldn’t even pick a flower.
“Control. Most likely. Not fear. If you can’t win—run.”
He was sad for about six seconds, when suddenly he switched to observing a group of flamingos.
“Amazing adaptation,” he commented. “Specialized beak for filtering food, pink color from carotenoids in the diet… Biological forms. Fragile. Low efficiency of great diversity. Better one stone than a heap of sand. No. Visual factor for you. I understand. Inspiration, joy. A source of data for us. Acceptable.”
“You’re like a living encyclopedia.”
“Access to many of your databases. The advantage of knowledge.” Phil proudly spread his wings. “Live and digital observation. Different data arrays. Like the main course and a side dish.”
By evening, they reached the terrarium. Phil studied the snakes and lizards with particular interest.
“Relatives of your form?” Artyom asked with a smirk.
“Primitive thinking. Inability to see the essence.” The little dragon moved closer to the iguana terrarium. “They are merely a shadow. I am the source.”
“Will you tell your story someday?”
“Data exchange? Perhaps, but slowly. You are more primitive than your computers. Information transfer is difficult. No direct access. Nothing remarkable until our meeting,” Phil replied mysteriously.
On the way back, Artyom pondered the past day. He had seen the world through the eyes of a creature from an advanced future—and this world turned out to be both primitive and amazing. Phil didn’t just criticize humanity—he tried to understand its logic, to find meaning in contradictions. What a pity he couldn’t get an advanced stone from an advanced future to throw at that advanced backside with a clearly expressed sense of contempt.
“Seriously. No. Humor on the edge of a foul,” the little dragon scratched his protruding belly.
“Can you get out of my head and leave me at least some personal space?” Artyom was shocked. “Or I’ll take off these glasses to lock you in them.”
“Ah. Video encoding. Progress 46%. A shame to lose everything.” Phil theatrically pouted, showing disappointment at Artyom’s decision.
“Green blackmailer.” Artyom clenched his teeth; the video was the leverage he could use. It was his weakness. He was completely dependent on the little dragon.
Phil rolled his eyes.
“What do you think of people after today?” Artyom asked.
The little dragon flew alongside, occasionally peering into the windows of the hotel rooms they passed.
“Complicated. More data is needed,” the little dragon answered honestly. “Cruelty and care. Destruction and creation. Cause and effect. The logic of your actions is not always obvious. It started with an avalanche, ended with a volcanic eruption. Many variables. The solution is in the system of Chaos. A special kind of beauty.”
“Beauty in chaos?”
“Beauty in unpredictability. The Reapers were predictable—and thus dead. You are unpredictable—and thus alive.”
Artyom felt that something had changed in their relationship during this day. Phil ceased to be just his familiar or assistant. He became someone more significant—a being who saw the world differently but didn’t twist the truth to please him. He was ready to share the simplicity and naivety of his understanding.
“Shall we explore something else tomorrow?” Artyom asked.
“Tomorrow. Why postpone?” Phil hovered, propping his chin with one hand. “No. Different energy principle. Endurance. Rest. But there is a solution. The world is full of riddles. And now we have time to solve them. Day is your world, night is mine.”
Artyom smiled, understanding: his life had truly changed forever. But these were changes for the better. He and Phil ceased to be just a pair of human and AI. They became a team of researchers, a product of consciousness matrices, ready to discover new horizons of understanding.
New adventures awaited them—both in the world of dreams and in reality. And Artyom was no longer afraid of this future. He had a partner who would help him become better, and he, in turn, would help Phil understand humanity. And why not use Phil in video editing?
The true symbiosis of progress.
The “Forest Hotel” will return soon.
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