I stumbled into the lobby, filthy and reeking, smeared head to toe with the slime and blood of slain creatures. The taxi driver, bless his heart, kept a roll of plastic wrap in the trunk, probably for passengers as foul-smelling as me. I didn't soil his seats, but I caught him swapping out the air freshener the moment I stepped out, after paying double the fare.
Hauling my loot-filled bags from the trunk, I trudged upstairs, dreaming of a shower and some rest. The sudden influx of souls demanded release, too. Through sex, naturally. My Gift is my curse!
I racked my brain, trying to recall if I'd tossed the numbers of those two club girls I'd hooked up with recently, or if I'd have to start from scratch.
"Guests are waiting for you, Mr. Galaktionov!" the concierge announced.
"No kidding?" I blinked, surprised. "Who's here?"
"Eight noble ladies and gentlemen. You told me to let them in, didn't you? Or did I misunderstand?"
Damn it all. Andryukha. Sure, I'd told the concierge to give Androsov the key, but I figured I'd be back sooner. Or are these kids just that impatient?
"No, you did fine, thanks," I said, fishing in my pocket to tip her.
"Mr. Galaktionov!" she called hesitantly.
"What now?"
"I'd be most grateful if you'd use the service elevator. Sorry…" She lowered her eyes, embarrassed.
"What? Oh… sure, no problem," I muttered, heading for the freight shaft, still dripping slime and shedding chunks of something slick.
"And please keep to the left of the carpets!" she called after me.
Ugh, what a harpy! Throw her in a Rift, and she'd give anyone a run for their money! But fair enough, no need to mess up where I live. The old lady would have to clean up after me. I'd survive, so I shuffled across the marble tiles.
Stepping out on my floor, I eyed the carpet runners spread across the entire hallway. No way around them… Screw it! I marched straight ahead, only for something to leak from my bag. Damn it…
The passenger elevator doors slid open right in front of me, and two delivery guys nearly crashed into me. They yelped and darted forward to avoid me. Darted… toward MY apartment!
"Delivery service!" one announced, ringing the bell while eyeing me warily.
"Yeah, yeah, come in!" Andryukha's voice rang out, and the door started closing in my face. My door! I jammed my foot in the gap to stop it, my hands full.
"What the hell?" my friend grumbled. "Oh! OH! Where'd you crawl out of?!"
"A Rift," I growled, scanning my apartment.
Looked like the party was just kicking off. Guests were sipping light aperitifs while the delivery guys brought in the food.
"But we planned to hang out!" Androsov frowned.
"One doesn't stop the other," I smirked. "You lot are lazy, rich asses. A poor Slayer's gotta hustle somehow."
I hefted my two bags of loot for emphasis.
"Ugh!" Androsov wrinkled his noble nose.
"See what I mean? Bunch of delicate flowers!" I snorted, heading for the downstairs bathroom, the closest one. The door was locked.
"Hey, yo!" I banged on it. "If you're screwing in there, wrap it up quick! If you're washing, there's another bathroom in the house! This one's mine! Out!"
I'd be shocked if anyone was actually getting it on in there. And jealous… Look at you, Sandr, reduced to this…
The lock clicked, and out stepped a disgruntled Helga.
"Hey there!" I grinned. "You alone, or…" I craned my neck to peek inside.
"Or…" she mocked, then wrinkled her nose. "You stink, Galaktionov!"
"The scent of a true Slayer, sweetheart! Get used to it!" I cackled, slipping inside and locking the door before she could respond. Finally!
After a quick shower, I hit a snag. All my meager clothes were upstairs in the bedroom dresser. Well, it's my house. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I strode out boldly.
Among the familiar faces was only Androsov's new loyal minion, Viscount Hans Schroeder, whom I'd saved in the… shower room, not the john. There were also two counts, two countesses, and another viscount. I had no clue what Helga's title was, or even her last name, which was odd, now that I thought about it. But this was a highborn crowd. Androsov hadn't wasted time making noble friends. I was probably the lowliest here.
With a pang, feeling my libido's mounting pressure, I gave the countesses a predatory glance. The "Ice Queen" wasn't even on my radar as a hookup—not tonight, anyway, though she wasn't bad. But something told me I wouldn't score with her highborn friends either. Damn… Still, I caught their curious looks sizing up my half-naked, lean, sinewy frame. Not exactly lustful, though. More like I was an intriguing newcomer. Plus, my red Slayer ring added a touch of mystery. They all had basic transparent rings. Trainees, ugh…
I dressed quickly and returned to the living room, looking respectable. The fireplace glowed cozily, two hired waiters circulated with drinks, and another set a table in the corner. What a bunch of klutzes, can't even slice sausage themselves! Except… it wasn't sausage, but lobsters and fancy appetizers. Nice to be rich!
"Hold up!" I barked, stopping a waiter, and downed two shots of whiskey back-to-back to catch up with the already tipsy guests. The amber liquid slid down my throat, exploding in my stomach like a warm bomb, softening the harsh edges of reality.
Time to have some fun. I grabbed a quick bite, introduced myself to everyone, and soon it was time for dancing. I got why aristos stuck together. They could let loose in ways they couldn't around commoners, without landing in scandalous society columns.
When slow music started, I wiped my hands with a napkin and approached Helga.
"Care to dance?"
Androsov stifled a snort nearby. Weirdly, both countesses had been twirling with their partners for over half an hour, while Helga sat like an outcast, quietly sipping champagne.
"What?" I turned to my friend.
"Nothing," he mumbled, embarrassed, clearly rethinking whatever he was about to say. I was surprised. Had he fallen for Helga? Poor guy, wrong move. Not with your loyalty, sneaking around behind your fiancée's back. I know the type—they'd curse themselves for life. A faithful hound to one mistress till death.
"Just… I… wanted a drink…" he stammered again.
"I'm not gone forever, I'll be back," I said, turning to my soon-to-be dance partner.
"Well… fine," Helga said graciously, taking my hand, and we glided to the dance floor. Androsov muttered something behind us. Maybe he really was itching to get plastered?
The dance was a flop from the start. Helga stayed silent, firmly redirecting my hand whenever it strayed below her back. She didn't engage in conversation either, staring off distantly. Total Ice Queen.
And she danced way better than me. Way better. I realized what a gap that was on my part. I'd need a few lessons. Back when I was Godart, they didn't teach me dancing beyond the basics. Henry probably knew I'd never be his heir.
But Countess Svetlana Pokrovskaya was far more welcoming. She had no issue pressing her warm body against mine, eagerly asking about me and my Rift runs.
When I collapsed into a soft armchair—dancing had become uncomfortable due to a sudden tightness in my pants—and the countess headed to the bathroom, Helga surprised me again.
"Hope you're into sadomasochism?" she remarked casually.
"What?" I choked on my whiskey.
"You know, it's a sexual practice where…" she began patiently, but I cut her off.
"I know what it is! Why'd you say that?"
"Well…" Helga hesitated, her eyes glinting mischievously. "Her father's a kind, caring man who's awfully fond of cold steel. They say at a ball, his daughter turned down a foreign viscount, and he called her a whore. For that alone, he went home a eunuch. Huge scandal, but Pokrovsky said he was ready for war if they pushed it. So, what do you think he'd do if he heard his daughter was plied with drinks and taken advantage of?"
"Uh… I didn't get her drunk," I said, confused about my role in this.
"Exactly!" She raised a cheerful finger. "That's what you'll try to explain to him."
Damn it! The countess, flushed from dancing and booze, emerged from the bathroom and instantly lost all appeal. Nope, no way! I glanced at the other countess.
"And Countess Sinelnikova's engaged. Long and solid," Helga informed me, unprompted. "You could try your luck. I'll give you a two percent chance of success. But then you'd make enemies of the entire Nechaev clan, who, by the way, are hereditary military. Oh, and Igor Nechaev's grandfather, her fiancé, commands the Third Imperial Army and holds the rank of Great Magister."
What a trap… Great Magister… Yeah, I'm steering clear of those ladies for the next couple of years… or until I've cleared a thousand Rifts.
The ranks of the Gifted here are straightforward.
The weakest is Apprentice, assigned to all Gifted when their Gift awakens. Next is Journeyman, who, unless they're an idiot, can take down five Apprentices using just control and energy.
Then come Warrior and Veteran. These are serious fighters who know their craft.
Many Gifted stall at Veteran. It's a hurdle not everyone clears. That's why aristocratic kids train from childhood to avoid stunting their growth. For them, it's a fate worse than death.
Next are Master and Magister. These are one-man armies, capable of repelling an enemy attack or defending a city single-handedly, unless facing equal ranks. Sure, a mob could overwhelm anyone, but will they let you?
What comes next is a nightmare, by this world's standards.
Great Magister. Like that grandfather. Think multiple armies. With the right Gift, they're unstoppable. Such people are worth their weight in gold in the Russian Empire, and likely beyond. Above them are the elite of elites, who can chat with the Emperor like pals. They answer only to him. Everyone fears them, whispering their names.
High Mage—a monster with such vast energy reserves, I don't even want to think about it, lest I get depressed. There are only a handful, thank the gods…
There's one more rank after that, but I won't name it or dwell on it. They say they're legends who could order the Emperor himself, and he'd obey instantly… But I think that's nonsense…
So, my evening hookup crashed and burned, pathetically. Though… I glanced at Helga, and she edged away.
"Don't even think it, Galaktionov!"
"Think what?" I grinned.
"Don't think anything!" She jumped up and fled to the balcony. Something's off with her. Very off!
"Well then, fine folks, shall we get smashed?" I asked the noble count and his loyal viscount.
A bit later…
"Hey, Andryukh! Get Hans out of the salad!"
Viscount Schroeder had passed out face-first in a salad bowl, unable to keep up with the booze marathon.
"N-no need," Androsov slurred, barely moving his tongue. "It's an old Russian tradition—if someone faceplants in salad, the party's a success! My… hic… dad told me, when my uncle visited!"
"Then at least pick the peas out of his nose! Guy'll choke!" I snorted.
Androsov grabbed a fork to try, but his hands shook so bad he nearly poked Schroeder's eye out.
"Screw your traditions!" I snatched the fork, lifted Schroeder from the bowl, wiped his face with a napkin, and propped him against the armchair, from which he promptly slid.
I looked around. Helga was the only sober one. Pokrovskaya, apparently miffed by my blatant ignore, had found another suitor, as she and a count were missing. The rest, in various stages of drunkenness, were… doing nothing.
The staff had been dismissed long ago to avoid embarrassment. Damn it! What do I do with them? On the other hand, I've got four bedrooms. We'll manage. These nobles! They sure surprised me! Tomorrow they'll sober up and slap on their snob masks again. Fine, I hope they at least had fun.
Helga called a taxi and left, shooting me an odd look on her way out. I helped the others to the bedrooms. From one came strange noises: howls mixed with loud smacks.
I couldn't resist sending Shnyrka to check, recalling him immediately.
"Hor-r-r-ror!" my little buddy hissed his expert opinion.
"That's putting it mildly!" I smirked. That bedroom's definitely a storage room now. Sleep there? Hell no! Aristocrats, ugh…
I woke up before everyone, glancing at Androsov beside me, a trickle of drool pooling from his mouth onto my pillow. Weaklings!
I threw on my last decent suit and headed downstairs. I needed a cleaning service. The lobsters smelled off by morning, and the other food had gone stale, so I made do with two bananas and a glass of juice from the fridge, planning to eat later.
I opened the bathroom door… Holy hell! It wasn't the lobsters! My bags of precious loot, which I'd totally forgotten, stank to high heaven. I'd need a freezer if I kept dissecting poor critters.
I flipped on the exhaust fan and hunted for something to transport the bags without hurling my bananas. A Hunter's stomach is tough, but there's a limit!
Then I remembered the storage closet had furniture covers for protecting stuff during long absences. Hope the landlord won't mind. They seemed waterproof, at least.
Oh, and the serving cart would come in handy. I called a taxi, loaded the wrapped bags onto the cart, and rolled it downstairs.
"Mr. Galaktionov!" the concierge called immediately.
"Yeah?" I asked.
"Is everything… okay up there?"
I sighed.
"What now?"
"Neighbors are complaining about a bad smell!"
"Rotten seafood!" I lied. "Um… I'll need a cleaning crew. Once all the ladies and gentlemen… ahem… rest up and leave, please have it cleaned. Yes, yes! I know it's not free! We'll settle when I'm back. I'm in a hurry!"
"Archip's Legendary Gear, please!" I told the driver.
"Yes, sir Slayer!" he said as we set off.
The driver kept sniffing the air. Even wrapped, my loot still reeked faintly. I kept a poker face and dove into my tablet to check the news.
My "Reputation" had jumped six points, hitting a neat 42. A new line appeared: *"Unlock Raid Leader status. Authorized to form an official group of up to five."*
Yeah, I'd heard about that. No one stopped Slayers from teaming up verbally, but an official Leader status had its perks.
We finally reached the shop, and I hauled my bags from the trunk and dragged them inside.
"Mr. Galaktionov! Good to see you!" Archip greeted, his warmth fading the moment I plopped the infernal bags on his counter with a squelch.
"N-n-n-n?" I grinned, channeling Shnyrka.
"What's this? Ugh!" Archip grimaced.
"Cave spider glands! Fresh!… Well, almost!" I boasted, stepping back from the stench.
"Uh…" The shopkeeper was stunned.
"I read the bestiary and checked prices! Imperial pharmacists will be thrilled!" I hyped my slightly spoiled wares.
"B-b-but… storage… condition…" the greedy trader started to complain.
"Oh, Archip, don't start!" I scowled. "Got these yesterday. With these hands!"
I showed off my hands, noting I should get a manicure. And pedicure. Foot massage, mmm…
Archip still gaped at me. I sighed.
"Fine, I'll take them to the Center! They're probably not so… prissy!" I reached for the bags.
"No, no!" The stinky bundles vanished from the counter. "How many?"
"Not counting?" I smirked.
Archip glanced warily at the floor.
"I'll take your word… this time."
"Forty-four!" I said proudly.
"Right!" Archip nodded, snapping into business mode. "So…"
"Archip!" I warned.
"Yes, sir Slayer?"
"We had a deal, remember? Trust?"
"Trust, yes," the shopkeeper nodded. "Fifty-five rubles each."
I calculated. Above market, but I'd be damned if I haggled further. The thought of dragging THIS anywhere else!
"Deal!" I nodded. "And here! Jellies!"
I tossed the sack of goods.
"Twenty-two!"
"Wow!" Archip looked at me with respect. "You got these alone?"
I was surprised too. There were over a hundred critters, weak ones, but I only got twenty-two jellies. I'd hoped for fifty at least. Things aren't simple, Sandr, not simple…
"No, with a gypsy troupe! Bears helped too!" I snorted. "How much?"
"One hundred sixty-five each!" Archip said without blinking.
He's good! The price had spiked today.
"Deal again!" I smiled.
"Buying anything today?" he asked, reaching for the cash box. "Or more to sell?"
The stone… I forgot the stone, and I'd had such hopes for it. It's still in my closet.
"Nah, didn't break my sword today."
"Here you go, five thousand rubles!"
"Sweet! Later!" I stuffed the cash into my inner pocket and turned to leave.
"Mr. Galaktionov!" Archip called.
"What?" I turned, irritated. I still had to hit the sports store. My tracksuits weren't lasting long.
"Can I offer you a job?"
"You?" I raised an eyebrow.
I get needing cash, but not that badly. Still… might as well hear him out. Hopefully, it's not straight-up crime.
"Well, let's say I'm a middleman."
"For who?" I frowned.
"Ever heard of the 'Den'?"
I racked my brain… Right!
"Free Slayers?"
"Exactly!" Archip beamed. "I sort of work with them. Some orders pass through me, both ways."
"Anything good?" I asked. I'd hit a Rift anyway, so something might pique my interest.
I'd heard of these guys. Like the Center, but looser rules, and anyone can join. They don't live long and love money like nobody's business.
I read that the Den sometimes gets jobs like rushing to a Rift to catch a rare monster alive, or hauling out stone slabs for some aristocrat's trendy floor.
Slayers don't usually bother with that. They're more about moral codes and protecting humanity. Though most collaborate with the Den through middlemen.
Archip spilled it all.
First contract: A young nobleman, proposing to a Slayer's daughter, was told to prove himself in a Rift. His family was loaded, with top-notch bodyguards and connections. They'd reserved a weak Rift, needing only an active Slayer as a guide. Pay was 1,000 rubles, all loot theirs.
Pass! Waste of time, and if the kid died, I'd be in deep trouble.
Second contract: The Freemen were gathering a big group for a demon-infested manor. Standard deal, 2,000 rubles, loot split by seniority—meaning zilch for me. I'd eyed that manor, but I'd go on my terms, with my crew. So, that's a no.
Third contract, though: a "Red" demon horde. Shady crew, recruiting Slayers from Class 5. Face check required, but Archip said I'd make it. Sketchy, but 5,000 rubles and an even loot split "by heads" sounded tempting.
I dug into the details of the last one. It was a classic "jelly hunt," where nobles assemble a squad to avoid buying cheap, while leveling up their people. Archip said it's routine. Usually, the team's power is sufficient, and Slayers are there to check the boxes.
I asked Archip about Slayer rings, essential for Rift entry. He smirked, opened a drawer, and dumped a pile of "empty" rings on the counter. Supply channels exist, and many Slayers sell theirs when they retire. Seems like money buys anything here.
By "retire," I bet he meant "die before pension kicks in."
No issue with the ring, anyway. If someone else puts mine on, it turns transparent instantly.
"I'm in!" I nodded, and Archip gave me the meeting spot and time.
Now, to the sports store! Going to a Rift in a tracksuit felt dumb, but I couldn't afford proper gear yet. Guess it's my signature.
Later…
At Archip's Legendary Gear
Archip was cursing as he transferred the bags' contents into portable coolers. He even donned a mask; the stench was unbearable.
They say money doesn't smell? Lies! Sometimes it reeks so bad it brings tears to your eyes.
The old shopkeeper mused about his new acquaintance. This Galaktionov drew him in, though the old fighter couldn't pinpoint why. He exuded a strength rare in young men—hell, rare in anyone he knew!
He'd been like that once. Monster Slayer Class 1, Archip the Boulder, the Empire's hope and his family's pride. A man who climbed from nothing, earning the esteem of the mighty. People believed he'd achieve the impossible, claiming the Absolute. He almost had.
Archip scrubbed his hands, pulled a frosted vial of "Vampire's Kiss" from his stash—he favored only this elixir, a specific blend—and took a quick sip.
The drink was smooth, no wince needed. Top quality, and the chill masked any bite, making it almost syrupy. Then he opened his desk drawer, where his Slayer ring lay forlorn. He'd nearly thrown it out several times, a painful reminder of his past… and his failure.
He sighed and slipped it on. The clear stone stirred, blinked twice, and glowed red. Slayer Class 5.