The Siberian Express dropped us off at Irkutsk's station, which resembled a fortress more than a railway hub. Massive bastions with anti-aircraft artillery and on-duty mages hinted that creatures were commonplace here. Worse, flying creatures—likely formidable ones.
Glancing at Andrey's small satchel, I grinned.
"I thought *I* packed light! You look like a bum!"
Andrey was getting used to me but still wrinkled his noble nose at my jabs. It helped that I covered our food and drinks. Well, mostly. The money originally came from Shnyrka's efforts, not me.
Fact is, Andrey, with his gemstone collection, sheepishly promised to "pay back every kopeck" until I got fed up. I told him one more "I'll definitely repay you, don't worry," and I'd leave him to dine on his diamonds. That seemed to work.
The station buzzed like an anthill. Andrey quickly got his bearings, having planned his escape meticulously, studying every detail from afar as best he could.
Several armored vehicles stood nearby, and we headed toward them.
An infantry staff captain scrutinized our documents, marked his ledgers, and nodded.
"All clear, proceed!"
This was transport for Slayers—or those aspiring to be.
I'd planned to check into a decent hotel first, but since this opportunity arose, why not? I needed to stick with Andrey. He was sharp and savvy, though a poor fighter. If trouble came en route, I'd handle it, and in return, he'd help me navigate paperwork or enrollment. I loathe bureaucracy, especially since I'm used to the Prussian Principality's rules and laws.
Weaving through narrow streets, the armored convoy reached the city's outskirts. Narrow viewing slits limited visibility, but every Irkutsk house looked like a fortress with slim windows and heavy armored shutters. A stark contrast to Europe's peaceful cities, where the main worry was avoiding duels with arrogant aristocrats.
Besides Andrey and me, the vehicle carried the staff captain who'd checked our papers. Notably, Andrey used his real documents without issue. It felt reminiscent of my Order, where anyone could join regardless of status, provided they were useful. Andrey explained that Lineages had little sway over Slayers. Some tried to impose their influence, but with little success, as Slayers primarily answered to the imperial Lineage.
Slayers held strategic importance. Andrey showed me jellies extracted from monster heads, vital to the Empire. Jellies were a new concept to me, absent in my past life. Slayers outnumbered Hunters from my previous world, and while not feared, they were respected and valued. Oversight came from the highest levels, as some "geniuses" once tried to exploit Slayers for personal gain, harvesting jellies or closing profitable Rifts. Such opportunists were swiftly dealt with. Only Slayers enjoyed free trade, selling their spoils to whomever they chose.
Six others rode with us. Judging by their signet rings, two were aristocrats, each with two servants or bodyguards. Thank the Code, they weren't overly chatty or nosy, sparing me the need to tell anyone to buzz off. Andrey was too well-mannered for that.
"Arrived! Disembark, gentlemen!" our escort announced, peering outside after the armored vehicle's engine growled to a stop.
I followed Andrey out, surveying the surroundings with interest.
The Training Center—a specialized institution marking the start of every Slayer's journey. A school of sorts, imparting the bare minimum knowledge to keep noble aristocrats from dying in their first raid.
The Center was a sizable complex with numerous people and divided into various buildings, serving as a key base.
"Look," Andrey nodded toward a squad exiting a nearby vehicle.
They'd just returned from a mission, looking battered.
Life had roughed up these vagabonds. Their Slayer rings marked the lowest rank, despite being in their forties.
From my walking encyclopedia, Andrey, I learned that rings weren't exclusive to aristocrats—Slayers had them too. They signified status and utility. Without a Slayer's ring, you couldn't enter a Rift. The ring's stone indicated rank: white for the lowest, rainbow for Absolutes, the highest.
We passed the entrance, showed our documents to another guard, and were let inside. We wanted to explore and find our destination, but that wasn't allowed. As newcomers, we were assigned a guide—a young woman about twenty named Helga, who led us.
We needed the admissions office.
There, they processed us like everyone else, rechecking documents and handing us forms to sign.
Andrey and I had different contracts and goals.
He signed for six months; I, for a week. Honestly, he had too much time on his hands. But this protected him from his father.
You became a Slayer after your first raid and a week's training, free to raid anytime. Contracts had nuances. During training, you'd get relatively safe raids, assigned by the Center per the curriculum with escorts. Relatives couldn't pull you out, which is why Andrey chose this path. A month would suffice for me to clear my debts and plan next steps. I didn't want three months in a nursery, playing at learning life as a Slayer. The role was too similar to being a Hunter, which I knew inside out from my past life. I'd dedicated enough time to it then; now, it was a hobby and a way to build a reputation.
Andrey and I approached office ten with our documents, easy to find. Here, the fun began.
"Come in!" we were permitted after knocking.
No queue, so no day-long wait.
"Good afternoon, we were sent from admissions," Andrey began.
"Both at once?!" An old man at the desk removed and wiped his glasses. "Didn't they tell you to come one at a time?"
This old-timer was feisty, ready to throw hands.
What, start my first day fighting a Slayer? Nah, not an option… He hasn't accepted me yet.
"Please forgive our manners, but my friend recently arrived in the Empire and doesn't fully understand things, so he asked for my help," Andrey explained politely. "He fears signing up for the wrong thing out of ignorance."
The old man huffed into his mustache but sat back down.
"Fine, you rascals, I'll let it slide this time," he softened, eyeing me. "Can your friend speak our language? It'll be tough without it. Where's he fought?"
"Fought" here could mean anything—battling monsters in wild lands, defending Lineage rights, or military service.
"I understand the language, but not the laws and rules," I smiled amicably. "I've fought where I had to. Life as an aristocrat abroad, without a signet but with your origins written on your face, isn't easy."
"Alright… Come in," he grumbled.
Now things got interesting. The admissions office filtered out farm kids and issued initial forms. Here, choices were serious. We were sent to office ten as two capable nobles, likely boosted by Andrey's well-known surname.
Questions poured, and I realized this old Slayer earned his keep. Each question made it harder to answer without revealing my past life.
Andrey's was straightforward: born, studied, "want to serve the Empire and gain skills."
My questions were trickier. I felt lying was risky, as the old man could verify my answers, so I stuck to my experience in this world—minimal, sadly. His face grew grimmer with each response.
After the "interview," he paused, muttering with his dentures.
"You're clear," he nodded at Andrey. His lack of deference to nobles confirmed Slayers had their own culture. "A six-month contract is smart. You'll learn plenty and won't die disgracefully. We won't have to explain to your noble papa why we didn't save your noble backside. A formality, but I hate it!"
"But you, lad, are a problem," he turned his faded eyes to me, curious and annoyed. "Are you one of those bookish boys who read hero tales and want quick glory? Or is this a weird way to off yourself, without fame or honor, but with a decent insurance payout for relatives?"
"With all respect," I began cautiously, smiling, "neither. I have no relatives, so the Empire saves on me if anything happens."
"Why this 'kamikaze package'?" he squinted.
"Kamikaze package?" I raised an eyebrow.
"The Japs have these lunatics…" he started, but I cut him off.
"I know what 'kamikaze' means, and no, I'm not planning to die. A week's training is the minimum for Rift access, right? Or did I miss something?"
He grimaced, unaccustomed to interruptions.
"Correct, but I must warn you—"
I interrupted again.
"Yes, I read everything, all the risks. There was a 'liability waiver' form that cuts insurance, which I don't need."
He snorted, digging in his desk for another form.
"Correct again, but you're making a mistake!"
"Why dissuade me?" I smiled, scanning and signing the form.
"You're awfully cheeky…" he grinned suddenly. "Reminds me of my youth."
He noticed me eyeing his ring, its stone a vibrant blue. A 2nd-Class Slayer. Elite, just shy of the top tier. A true level—few Slayers lived to see their stone glow blue.
"Your ring suggests a fine career, so I think I'll manage," I smirked.
"Maybe 'cheeky' should be 'brazen,'" he frowned, though not angrily. "Fine, we'll see. Die, so be it. Survive, great—we always need Slayers. Here are your assignments. Barracks Two, your course officer is 4th-Class Slayer Krasnikov. Listen to him, and maybe we'll meet more than once."
"More than once?" I clarified.
"We'll meet once for sure—I issue the rings," he pulled a simple metal ring with a clear stone from his drawer. "This is the Monster Slayer's symbol, your friend and comrade until death. Without it, you're nothing. And it's nothing without you. See you in a week, if you don't screw up. Now, get out! I've got work!"
"Thank you for your time," I tried chatting with our quiet guide, who'd only given her name—Helga.
Too skinny for my taste, the blonde met my gaze with gray eyes, assessing if I was joking or serious. She lacked a Lineage signet but wore a Slayer's ring, its clear stone marking her below 6th Class.
"I'm on duty today, so it's fine," she replied, leading us to Barracks Two.
"Been here long?" I continued the small talk, with nothing else to do.
"Almost a month," she said curtly.
"Oh! So you've been to a Rift?" Andrey piped up, curious.
"Had to," she tossed out nonchalantly. What the—do they have hazing here?
"How's it… there?" Andrey pressed.
"Fine," she nodded.
"Creatures didn't bite too hard?" I teased, just to rattle her.
She glanced at me, grimacing.
"Comedian?"
"A bit," I admitted. "Hate to ruin such beauty!"
A woman's a woman, so she softened slightly at the heavy-handed compliment but didn't respond.
"Here!" she nodded at a two-story building, more like a mid-tier guesthouse than a barracks. Understandable—nobles wouldn't be housed in a sty. "Report to the duty officer!"
"See you again?" I aimed for the last word.
"Have to," she frowned. "I live here too."
"Perfect! Beer's on me," I smirked.
"We don't serve alcohol," she gave a slight smile.
"No way!" I exclaimed. "How do you unwind?"
"We don't stress," she quipped with a tired joke. "Gotta go."
"Thanks, Olenka!" I grinned, twisting her name to a Slavic form.
"My name's Helga," she snapped, her friendliness vanishing, fists clenching like she wanted to swing. What's with her?
I raised my hands playfully, admitting fault, and she walked off. Nice view from behind…
"Why'd you freeze?" I turned to a frowning Andrey.
"Huh? What?" He shook his head, as if shaking off memories. "Nothing… seemed like…"
The duty officer led us to the course leader.
Vasily Krasnikov was an experienced Slayer, overseeing this building and initial novice training. Slayers had no military ranks, only classes based on raid counts and… well, it's complicated. From 6th, the lowest, to 1st, the highest. Above 1st was only… Absolute.
Absolute. A weighty term. The world's most powerful Gifted. To become an Absolute, you needed extraordinary Rift feats and at least Great Master rank.
So few reached this title—not every Lineage, nor every nation, had one. Legends were woven about their deeds; they were revered and feared, known by name.
They say killing monsters strengthens you. Unproven, just speculation. I can't comment.
Krasnikov was 4th Class, his ring glowing bright orange.
To be precise, Viscount Vasily Krasnikov was a 4th-Class Slayer. Over fifty raids, marked by a modest badge on his chest, commanded respect. 4th Class was solid, his expertise more than sufficient for training novices.
But he seemed to aim for administrative growth, not fieldwork. Respectable. Without a strong rear, frontline fighters die fast. I knew this from my past life—Hunters had Elders, never dismissed as "rear rats."
Well! A new life begins! Full of deadly dangers and insane risks! Just as I wanted…