I awoke to an olfactory assault, a cloying, over sweet perfume clashing with the stale residue of cheap tobacco and the sour tang of evaporating ethanol. Cracking my eyes open, I was met with the quintessential portrait of mortal chaos.
I was in a stranger's apartment. The pink floral wallpaper was peeling at the corners, a row of plush bears stared vacantly from a bedside table, and a pop star grinned with haunting perfection from a wall poster. Beside me, Alina, the brunette from the night before, was still curled beneath a thin duvet. Her breathing was heavy and rhythmic, a sign that her heart was currently laboring to process the toxins of last night's revelry.
My memories of the evening were like scorched film fragments. Dima's explosive laughter, my own "electrified stork" dance, and the impulsive decision to escort this girl home because she was too terrified to walk the dim corridors of Novosibirsk alone. Judging by the trail of clothes leading to the bed, biological instinct had taken the reins for the remainder of the night.
I rose without a sound. To an entity that had witnessed the collapse of empires, this cramped student flat felt remarkably human. A stack of medical textbooks sat precariously on a desk. She hadn't lied, she was a future soldier of the medical front, not a mere club goer.
"Amazing how they can sleep so soundly after sabotaging their own vessels with poison," I whispered, pulling on my jeans. My temples throbbed slightly. If my constitution felt the strain, Alina would wake up in her own personal purgatory in a few hours.
I stepped into her small, tidy kitchen. As a form of silent compensation for the intense night, I decided to utilize a fragment of my survival skills. I found eggs, cheese, and a few sausages in her nearly barren fridge. With the precision of a surgeon turned chef, I prepared the ingredients. The sizzle of butter on the pan was a far better melody than the thumping bass of the Night of Eternity.
Once the meal was ready, I wrapped the portions for her, scrubbed the dishes until they gleamed, and left a brief note on the counter.
"Thank you for last night. There is food in the fridge. Drink as much water as you can."
I closed the door softly. There was no emotional tether. To me, humans were fleeting stops, like a breeze touching an eternal flame. I had far greater concerns than a fleeting romance.
Iron Discipline and the Shadow of the Barracks
The morning air of Novosibirsk felt like a cold blade across my face, but it helped dissolve the lingering fog in my brain. I walked toward the Hunter Guild headquarters, where the harsh reality of militarism quickly shattered the last remnants of the night's pleasure.
Inside the main hall, the atmosphere was suffocating. Oleg Gromov, the instructor with a face carved from pure resentment, stood before the ranks. His gaze was a radar seeking out weakness. Unfortunately, Dima and I were blipping brightly on his screen.
"Krivtsevich. Voronov. So glad you decided to join us after your little bacchanal."
Dima looked worse for wear, he was pale and bloodshot, yet he tried to stand straight even as the scent of cheap beer radiated from him like a distress signal.
Oleg approached, each footstep sounding like a death sentence.
"Who do you think you are? Tourists? Hunters are the sword and shield of humanity, yet you behave like dregs of society who just discovered an open bar."
He stopped directly in front of me, jabbing a finger into my chest.
"Absences, lateness, and moral degradation. I don't care how talented you think you are. From this day forward, anyone who fails to maintain discipline will be moved to the Intensive Training Barracks for one week. No home, no clubs, no privacy. Only drills, barracks, and discipline."
A murmur of protest broke out, but Oleg silenced it with a single glare. I weighed my options. I could easily break his hand here and vanish, seeking a new identity. But the Guild was the easiest path to information regarding the portals and the Mother's power. A week in the barracks, to me, it was a blink in eternity.
"I accept the punishment," I said flatly, causing Dima and the others to turn in shock.
The Homunculus Contract
Before departing, I had to resolve one vital matter, Irina. I couldn't leave her with Airi. The homunculus, despite her lack of outward emotion, had formed a strange bond with Hanako.
When I returned home to pack, Hanako in her nekomata girl form clung to my leg with an anxious face. She knew I was leaving. In the corner, Irina stood motionless, staring at the wall like a beautiful but hollow marble statue.
"We can't leave Ira alone," I murmured to Hanako. "She refuses to eat unless I command it. Airi would be exhausted trying to handle her."
I decided to do something considered taboo by many mages, register two familiars simultaneously.
At the Guild's registration desk, the receptionist stared at me as if I had two heads.
"Safety Regulation Article 4, Mr. Krivtsevich, one hunter, one familiar. Having two will fracture your energy core and could be fatal."
"Your rules were made for ordinary humans," I countered coldly. "I have already bound a spiritual contract with her. Call your superior if you have an objection."
Minutes later, Elena Volkova appeared. She carried an aura of authority that was hard to dispute, but the moment her eyes landed on Irina, her face drained of color.
"Is that a Homunculus?" Elena whispered, stepping closer. "Krivtsevich, where did you get a living artifact from the Clan Wars?"
"I found her standing in an alley near my apartment. I thought she was lost, so I fed her," I replied.
Elena didn't believe me, but the lab scans forced her to accept reality. Irina had no heartbeat or breath, yet at her soul's core was a spiritual contract bound to me.
"This is madness," Elena said. "You've tethered your life to two monsters. But the mark is valid. Fine, she is registered as your follower. But if she slaughters anyone in the dormitory, I will personally take your head."
Night in the Barracks A Mirror to the Past
The barracks were grim. The scent of old wood, varnish, and saturated sweat filled the corridors. I shared a room with Igor, Svetlana, and Artyom, the same group from the rat mission.
That night, to stave off boredom, Artyom pulled out a board game titled Between Heaven and Hell. I sat silently as they began to set the pieces. My eyes fixed on a horned demon miniature they called the Prince of Gluttony. It was laughably inaccurate.
"You in, Zhenya?" Igor asked. "We can learn strategy against spirits through this."
"Sure," I said with a thin smile.
I won the game in record time. Not by luck, but because I knew how demons thought. They weren't just savage monsters, they were manipulators who used human desire to dismantle humanity from within.
Once the game ended and the lights were dimmed, Igor pulled an old, tattered book from under his pillow.
"You want to hear the real legend? Not the sanitized version from the government?"
Everyone in the room leaned in. Even Svetlana looked intrigued.
"This is the legend of the Wanderer," Igor whispered. "A hero with a flaming sword who appears in humanity's darkest hours. He was seen in Rome during the succubus plague, in Russia during the shadow invasion. They say he doesn't age. He is the shield sent by the Goddess to protect us."
I listened with a mixture of nausea and embarrassment. The details Igor mentioned, the flaming blade, the tattered cloak, the effortless destruction of monsters, that was me.
The incident in Rome, I was just annoyed because those succubi were noisy and ruined my nap. Russia in 1812, I was just looking for a decent gingerbread and happened to find a pack of shadows blocking the road.
"Maybe he's still among us," Katya murmured. "Hiding as an ordinary person, waiting for the right moment to draw his sword again."
"Or maybe he is the Mother herself in male form," Artyom suggested.
Seeing the awe in their eyes, I felt a deep irony. These hunters worshipped a shadow, a legend they created from the scraps of my often selfish or accidental actions.
They hoped for a savior, unaware that their hero was currently lying in the bed next to them.
"Go to sleep," I grumbled, pulling the blanket up. "A hero isn't going to save you from the six o'clock roll call tomorrow."
As the lights went out, I stared into the dark.
The legend of the Wanderer had grown too large.
If they knew the truth, would they still look at that old book with hope.
Or would they be the first to turn their blades toward me.
One thing was certain, in a world built on lies, the truth was the deadliest weapon of all.