"How much?" asked the first spectator approached by Stefa.
"As much as you don't mind giving for this performance," the girl smiled.
The man in simple clothes fidgeted a bit and dropped nine silver coins into the hat. Walking away, he winked at Khaal, who merely nodded slightly.
This was their subtle trick—asking not for a fixed price, but "as much as you don't mind giving." And the first to pay was always Turin—the very man who had bought Khaal from the dungeon.
So it's not surprising that coins numbering no less than six per person poured from the crowd. Thus, in just one performance, the circus owner earned no less than one and a half gold pieces from Khaal. A huge sum of money on which a peasant family of five could live for a whole month.
Khaal himself received only two coins and a piece of meat from this amount. But such luxury couldn't be boasted by other freaks. They didn't get any money or a hearty dinner. Only beatings with sticks and abuse. That's why they hated Khaal, but he didn't pay much attention to them.
After the show, Khaal's cage was covered with a dark cloth. It was wrapped in the same prop chains and rolled on rollers into a sturdy wagon. At the owner's insistence, they maintained their images until they drove twenty kilometers away from the city. Only then were the freaks allowed relative freedom.
No one should witness the deception firsthand. They could suspect and imagine anything, but not see it.
Khaal didn't argue. He didn't even have the opportunity. By just one wish of the owner, he could be shocked for several hours. Under such conditions, long and sharp tongues immediately become much shorter and duller.
For about an hour, people in cages jolted along the roads. The further from the city, the more broken they were. Despite the strengthening of the army, the state was in decline. Entire villages and settlements were disappearing.
People from there either fled to cities, where they led a beggarly existence, or were driven into slavery. The imperials constantly needed labor for the mine, which had grown to abnormal sizes.
Because of this, Khaal often heard news of new outbreaks of hunger or plague. Gradually, such news reached the cities. Is it worth mentioning that the number of bandits on the roads increased?
Previously, in every village, despite the extreme scarcity of resources necessary for development, there were always several practitioners. Yes, at most upper stages of Bodily Nodes, but this was enough to protect against beasts and rare bandits.
Now, with the disappearance of villages and settlements, these "warriors" rarely went into the army. More often, they took to freelance work. That's why the caravan with the circus was guarded by several mercenaries. Seven men and five women, to be exact.
They considered themselves a powerful force and didn't understand why Khaal didn't grumble before them like everyone else. He just smiled to himself. If he had the opportunity to take a sword in his hand again and hear the call of the wind—it would take him only three minutes to kill these arrogant bastards who never missed a chance to mock the freaks.
"Get out, Khaal," came Stefa's voice, and the cover was yanked from the cage.
It's not surprising that Khaal didn't invent another name for himself. Firstly, for the locals, his name was quite ordinary. The queen, apparently, lacked particular inventiveness, and Khaals roamed the world like Ivans in his homeland.
The former prince removed the chains and stretched his stiff arms. This caused another abscess on his elbow to burst, which provoked a short retching impulse from Stefa that she couldn't hide.
"Couldn't you come up with some other ending?" She turned away and tried to change the subject.
Khaal climbed out of the wagon and found himself in a spacious meadow. The drivers had already arranged the carts in a semicircle, and in the center, they had lit a fire. The most ferocious of the freaks, such as the hairy girl or the bird-boy, sat in cages. They had almost no reason left.
The rest huddled around a hastily constructed cesspit. They were given empty broths with crusts of bread, and now they glared in Khaal's direction. None of them could even dream that Stefa would speak to them.
"What's wrong with the transformation part?" asked Khaal.
It's not hard to guess which fairy tale he took as the basis for his "marketing." His current task was not only to sell as profitably as possible but also to be as noticeable as possible. Only in this way could he achieve what he wanted, and judging by what he managed to notice today, he had succeeded.
They rightly say—a smart hero won't go up the mountain, he'll go around it.
"It's all somehow... sad." Stefa took him by the arm, but in such a way as not to touch his skin.
Khaal didn't look his best—simple, short pants to show the wooden stumps. A shirt with sleeves of proportional length for the same purposes. And black coverings wrapped around him in all possible ways. He wore these when he left the cage. Though, in fact, he was forced to, so as not to spoil the appetite of those around.
"People, even if they don't admit it, love sad endings," Khaal shrugged. "After them, it's easier for them to live—life doesn't seem so burdensome. Especially if there's hope behind the sadness."
Stefa looked at him somewhat differently than usual.
"You speak very eloquently, Khaal."
"Perhaps."
She sat him far from the central fire. There, members of the troupe played musical instruments, drank, ate, and had fun. They were somewhat jealous of the freaks because, despite their small numbers, they brought in more money. But no city would let in just a crowd of "monsters," so the owner also kept classical representatives of art.
Khaal was given a wooden bowl with broth, in which floated a piece of meat. With veins, somewhat fatty, but still better than most.
This time, the former prince ate slowly and with pleasure. If he had planned and calculated everything correctly, this should be his last dinner surrounded by vagabonds.
"Status," Khaal gave the command to the neural network.
Name: Khaal
Development level: None
Strength: 0.01
Agility: 0.03
Constitution: 0.002
Energy points: None
Khaal just shook his head and continued eating. Despite everything, he continued his "training." His weak body, almost falling to pieces, was capable of not much. But after five years of "training"—a little more than before.
For playing the instrument, he did three push-ups every day. A trifle even for a normal child, but for Khaal—a titanic feat. And he often held on only because of such messages from the network:
[Constitution: +0.0001]
And for these hundred-thousandths, he could exhaust himself for entire weeks. Because it was better than just waiting and hoping that the plan would work.
At least—it was better.
"Stop lying!" the knife thrower drunkenly chuckled.
A thin guy, he could throw two dozen blades at once and never miss the target. Khaal would have liked to scan his development level, but couldn't.
"I'm telling you—at sixteen, I took down a ferocious bull!" the broad-shouldered mercenary thundered.
His name was either Brombur or Bromvurd, and despite his short stature, he was known for constantly trying to bend someone. Both literally and figuratively. He constantly cheated people out of money, and in cities, he disappeared into brothels.
"A ferocious bull, even a young one, is no lower than power awakening!" the knife thrower continued to insist. "And that, consider, is higher than the middle of Bodily Rivers!"
"Don't believe me?" Brom-whatever-his-name-was, threw a blade at the disputant's feet.
The thrower immediately picked it up. Thin, he nevertheless could boast of eight pack abs. Need I specify that after the owner, he visited Stefa more often than others and stayed longer than all combined.
Bald Brom, let's call him that, took off his shirt, displaying an emerging belly. But a substantial and mighty belly, not at all from beer. In his hands, he held a strong curved scimitar and wielded it as if he were a windmill and the sword—a blade.
"Analysis," Khaal mentally ordered.
Name: Bald Brom
Development level: Bodily Rivers, stage 3
Strength: 1.3
Agility: 1.24
Constitution: 1.86
Energy points: 1.9
Two "adepts," each, if the neural network was to be believed, no lower than Bodily Rivers third stage, enthusiastically waved their iron pieces at each other. They were encouraged by general whooping, the knocking of wooden mugs, and rhythmic music provided by the lute player.
In the evenings, the troupe had almost nothing to do. Everyone had already slept with everyone else long ago, new blood rarely flowed in (except in the form of freaks, but who would go to bed with them). Getting drunk often became boring, so such scenes were not uncommon. However, usually, they fought with fists.
Khaal watched this spectacle with slight melancholy.
Their strikes were slow and inaccurate. They hit wherever and however they could—without even thinking. As if fighting was for the stupid, when in fact the Master was not inferior to Scholar Southern Wind in intelligence. Only by calculating dozens of moves ahead can one overcome a worthy opponent.
The movement of their feet more resembled how wine is treaded from grapes in villages. They stomped in place, hardly controlling their center of gravity and balance. There was neither grace nor elegance that was present in the art of the sword. It, seemingly directed at killing, remained elegant even in its deadliness.
As beautiful as the dive of a falcon that had spotted a miniature prey a kilometer below.
As captivating as the grace of a tiger crawling in the grass, lurking before a swift leap.
They were not swordsmen—just practitioners who couldn't see the forest for the trees.
And such were the majority in the world.
The Master said that even some Heavenly Soldiers were not capable of knowing "unity with the world" in wielding their weapons. For this, one needed talent, perseverance, and a certain worldview. And stuffing oneself with precious resources coupled with special knowledge—doesn't require much intelligence.
At least, according to his mentors.
I wonder what happened to them? And to the nurse?
"Why are you grinning, freak?!"
Khaal was pulled from memories of the past by a mild slap. Falling and dropping the bowl with the still unfinished meat, Khaal saw Brom's figure towering over him.
Not that the mercenary cared so much about the freak's health, but if he had hit with even a tenth of his strength—he would have sent the feeble one to the next world.
"Nothing, honorable warrior," Khaal bowed, looking at the spilled soup.
He would have eaten the meat even from the ground. When you want to live—you'll endure even more.
"You want to say I imagined it?!" And the mercenary stepped with his heel on the meat, trampling it into the ground and mixing it with sand and dirt. "Look at me when I'm talking to you, freak!"
He raised Khaal's chin with the toe of his boot. Raised it and recoiled, comically falling on his bottom. For a moment, it seemed to him that he was not looking at a cripple, but indeed—an ancient beast. So frightening was the gaze of those clear blue eyes.
However, a moment later, when witnesses to the incident laughed, he no longer saw the fury and determination that had thrown him off balance. Only servility and submission.
"You think you know better, huh?!"
Brom jerked Khaal to his "feet," snatched the blade from the knife thrower's hands, and gave it to the freak. Someone tried to object to such behavior, but, alas. The only one who could stop what was happening was Stefa. And she had already gone to the owner's wagon and was unlikely to appear in public in the next hour.
"Well, show me, freak, what kind of 'legendary beast' you are!" the mercenary laughed, trying to hide his momentary fear.
"Damn it, damn it!" thought Khaal, with difficulty lifting the sword that was light for an ordinary person. "Not now, not when I'm so close!"
For Stefa had not gone to the owner alone, but with someone who was supposed to bring Khaal one step closer to his cherished goal.
Freedom and justice.
But a new problem stood before him.
A problem in the form of an enraged, humiliated mercenary who clearly wasn't going to let things take their course.