"Wow, what a huge house!" Ned marveled, looking at the massive structure, covered in red streaks, its tiled roof green with age. "Is this the family estate? A magnificent structure!"
Harald glanced suspiciously at his friend:
- Are you kidding me? This old junk?..
"I'm not being sarcastic at all. It's a magnificent structure. I've read about houses like these—they were built by the architect Ituron Simarsky, and they're considered a model of thirtieth-century architecture. They used white stone brought from the southern coast. You see, the lightness of the lines, the soaring turrets—they take away the heaviness of the structure, and the house seems more airy, as if it's about to soar upward, toward the clouds! Magnificent!"
"I don't see anything magnificent," Harald muttered with annoyance, fiddling with the latch of the gate next to the enormous one, big enough to admit two carriages abreast and hold back the onslaught of a small army. "Demonic old thing! It's crumbling, the bastard. I got hit on the head with a tile a year ago—a bump the size of a fist! Where did you get all this crap? 'Aerial'! 'Ituron'! 'Vosverit'! As if you weren't a cadet at an officer's academy, but a demonic student at a school for rich girls."
"He probably reads something other than romance novels for horny men and women! And you should at least pay a little attention to your education. You wouldn't look like such a fool!" A melodic voice from somewhere behind them made the friends turn sharply and grab the hilt of their swords, so unexpected was it.
Harald took a deep breath and said indignantly:
"You idiot! What if I chopped your head off right now?! How can you sneak up on me from behind like that? And then scream like a lunatic! You've completely lost your mind!"
Ned looked with pleasure at the girl of about sixteen who was looking at him with a brazen, insolent air. Nothing special – a slightly upturned nose, plump lips twisted into an ironic grin. A typical girl. Not a stunning beauty like Sanda li Zadara in her youth – just a pleasant girl.
Without responding to Harald's attack, the girl approached Ned, unceremoniously raised his hand and, turning her back to him, laid her head on the guy's chest, placing his hand on her shoulder in the manner of an embrace.
- Hara, how do we look? Is he suitable as a husband for me?
Ned stared in amazement at the girl's head—it barely reached Ned's shoulder, which had grown considerably in the last year—sniffed her hair, which smelled of wild grass, and thought about how lucky he was when it came to weird, eccentric girls. Take Sanda, for example!
He remembered her, sighing so heavily that the girl's head, pressed against the uniform, rose and fell, as if on a sea wave.
"Don't worry so much," the girl giggled, "not now. For now, enjoy your freedom. But later I will marry you. You're big, handsome, you don't smell like a goat—like my brother—and you understand architecture. You're perfect for me."
"Meet," Harald nodded sourly, "my cousin Amela. An orphan. We're raising her in our house. Insect, leave the man alone! He's already in shock from your manners—look at him, frozen like a stone pillar! And anyway, you, ant, need an ant! You'll burst on your wedding night like a frog inflated through a tube!" Harald laughed like a cart horse, and the girl, separating herself from Ned, looked him up and down disdainfully, wrinkled her nose, and shook her head doubtfully.
"You men think so much of yourselves, but you judge intimate matters by books written by those same idiots! I've seen where you hide your books with their nasty pictures! I've seen it! That's how you learn about life. By the way, what you're talking about is far less than you're trying to imagine! Maybe you're sick? Some kind of freak? I saw you pouring water over yourself at a well, and you had less of that thing than a sparrow! Go see a doctor, maybe it will help? That's why you can't find a girlfriend. Who needs a freak like that?"
"What disgusting stuff!" Harald fumed, red as a boiled crab. "I'll kill her now! And even if they judge me later, at least I won't have to suffer that punishment! I never told you I have a sister, did I? Now do you understand why? It's my curse! Toadstool, what do you know about male virtues?! I've even doused myself with ice water, and the cold makes everything shrink—didn't I learn that in school?!"
"Well, not to that extent," the girl innocently remarked, unlocking the gate with one movement, "you're flattering yourself."
"Hold me! I'm going to strangle her! And why the hell are you rummaging through my things anyway?"
– Are you talking about books? Yeah… you read them until they were all tattered… and smeared them with something… a-a-a! Grandpa! He's stalking me! Maniac! A-a-a!
Ned scratched his chin thoughtfully, looked at the opening of the gate through which the "maniac" and his "victim" had disappeared, looked around as if he was waiting for something similar to this "miracle" to emerge from somewhere, then stepped towards the gate from which Harald's red, excited head had already appeared:
"Well, what are you standing there for? Come on, you can look at this 'architectural wonder.' Grandpa's probably in the backyard, meditating. And that little bastard ran off and hid somewhere. The bastard runs so fast I can't catch her anymore. And she hides so cleverly. Do you know how she climbs the wall of the house? She's just like a spider! I can't do that, even though Grandpa taught me. I'm too heavy, it doesn't allow it. And I'm not that flexible. Let's go, let's go!"
Ned stepped over the small threshold of the gate and found himself in a wide, scrupulously swept courtyard, reminiscent of a small square. Yes, this house had once seen better days. Now, crumbling bas-reliefs and walls that, upon closer inspection, appeared chipped, as if they had been hit by stone throwers. Perhaps they had been. The house was ancient, as old as time itself, and in the hundreds of years it had stood on this site, the old house had seen many rebellions and civil strife. Aristocratic families were not known for their love of their political opponents.
The inside of the house was the same—not dilapidated, but battered by life, like an old soldier who had seen hundreds of battles and survived them all, only to be covered in a network of scars. This impression was further reinforced by the dozens of swords, spears, shields, and chainmail hanging on the walls of the first floor.
Harald noticed Ned's curious look and said proudly:
"Grandfather collects. We have one of the best collections of weapons in the city. The finest examples. Do you see this sword? It was made five hundred years ago, by master craftsman Zherd. He tempered it in blood, so the legends say. And this chainmail was made almost a thousand years ago. The craftsman is unknown, and how it was made is also unknown. But chainmail does not rust, and it is very difficult to penetrate. If it is even possible—they say it is made of heavenly metal. If grandfather sold it, we would have enough for repairs to the house and food for the next year! Any house in the capital would pay a fortune for it! It belonged to our ancestor and, according to legend, was given to us by the god of war himself.
"Everything can be sold, eaten, or wasted," a pleasant male voice came from behind. "There must be something sacred, not everything can be converted into money? We have enough food, we have a roof over our heads – isn't that enough? Right, young man? Harald, introduce me to your comrade."
Ned's gaze wandered from the treasures on the walls and he involuntarily straightened, as if before a commander. Before him stood a short old man, his age incalculable. He was completely gray—white as snow. His clean, luxuriant hair was not tied in a warrior's knot; a small black headband, adorned with gold embroidery, held it from falling over his eyes. Embroidered on it were runes that Ned knew meant "Strength" and "Loyalty."
"This is... Ned. Ned the Black. I told you about him, Grandfather," Harald said, stuttering slightly. "Ned, this is my grandfather, Imar Shorokan, head of the Shorokan family."
"I am very pleased to meet you," Ned bowed slightly, looking into the old man's dark eyes, surrounded by a network of wrinkles. "Harald often mentions you, especially your wisdom—in the form of sayings. I very much wanted to meet you, and I am happy that this has happened."
"He is polite," the old man nodded slightly. "Are you sure, grandson, that this man is a man of no family or tribe? His manners befit a true aristocrat. This is commendable—in our time, when honor has been lost and only money and pleasure are held in high esteem. Welcome to the Shorokans' house, young man. You are welcome here. Sit down, we will dine soon. Gitras will serve the table shortly. Today we are having venison with spicy spices for dinner. Hey, Night Shadow, come on out. I can hear you breathing!"
"Grandpa, you always hear me!" Amela shouted indignantly, appearing from somewhere above, from a hidden hatch above the stairs. "I can't sneak up on you, that's all!"
"To be fair, I heard you too," Ned interjected. "You were snoring so loudly, you scared away every mouse within a li."
- Aha! Joined forces with my brother! And you didn't hear anything, don't lie! Only my grandfather can hear me, and no one else!
"By the way, if he catches you, your brother, he'll give you a beating. Why are you teasing him?"
"I'll beat you!" Harald threatened furiously, glancing sideways at his smiling grandfather, who had settled himself at the end of the table.
"If he can!" the girl snorted contemptuously. "Is he going to hit me with a sword? And without a sword, he's a clumsy oaf! He still needs to hit me!"
"I have to admit, this little viper is quite strong in unarmed combat," Harald admitted. "It's a bit hard to hit. Only if you sneak up on her at night and pour a bucket of ice water on her..."
"Don't you dare, you scoundrel!" the girl said indignantly. "My bed still hasn't dried properly, and it stinks of your socks! That's a dirty trick!"
"There are no underhanded tactics in war," the old man chuckled. "Everything that leads to victory is essentially right. But that's in war. In life, it's a little different."
"But isn't there a war in life?" Ned retorted cautiously. "Everyone fights—for life, for a place in the sun, for a favorable position at the trough."
"Clever," Imar agreed. "But I had something a little different in mind. A war to protect your loved ones, your family, your country. Then any means are good. And you're right, young man, there's war, there's war everywhere. As far as I know, you've seen some fighting? On the battlefield? Did you take part in the last Isfirian War?"
"I had to participate," Ned nodded reluctantly, "a little."
"What's wrong?!" Harald laughed joyfully. "He has the 'Star of Courage' for his exploits on the battlefield! But he doesn't wear it; he's embarrassed! If our men saw him with that award, they'd pee themselves!"
"Ugh... watch your language, especially at the table," the old man winced and looked at Ned curiously. "Really, the 'Star of Courage'? And what did you get it for, if I may ask?"
"I'd rather not talk about the war," Ned said reluctantly. "And especially not about what I was awarded for. Besides, I'm forbidden from talking about it by order of my superior officer. It's a matter of state, and..."
"Don't go on," the old man interrupted. "You don't need to justify yourself. You're on duty, which means orders aren't up for discussion. But I wonder—what does that black mage's badge on your shoulder mean? A mage officer—that's very strange and interesting! Or is that also a military secret?"
"Not all. But it does," Ned nodded. "I'm a black mage, a demonologist, 'burned out' by using a spell that was too high-level. It was too much for me to bear. Now I'm trying to heal and regain my magical power. General Heverad—it's no secret—wants to create units of true mages in the army, combat ones. It's also no secret that mages currently play only a supporting role, serving primarily as healers. He believes magic holds far more potential for use on the battlefield. He also believes that demonologists were unjustly destroyed and their role in the life of the kingdom must be reconsidered. They must be raised from oblivion, trained, disciplined, and placed at the service of Zamara. And then the kingdom will be invincible."
"Your Heverad is a smart guy," the old man said, his tone uncertain—whether doubtful or approving. "Very smart. And do his colleagues agree with him?"
"Not all. But he has tremendous support from the army, and he'll probably succeed. If I recover, of course."
"Hmm... do they really treat the 'burned out'?" the old man raised his eyebrows in confusion. "So far, no one has found a way to restore the 'burned out' to their normal existence through some kind of healing, to regain their former magical powers."
"Grandpa has a huge library!" Harald chimed in. "He's read so much! I could never read so much!"
"You're reading the wrong books," Amela intervened, "your books aren't about magic at all…"
"What does he read about?" Imar raised an eyebrow. "I've never noticed him having a penchant for literature before. It's commendable that Harald has finally come to his senses."
"Oh, well, just... entertaining books," Amela giggled, looking at her brother, who was blushing. "All sorts. Mostly about strong men, conquering and dominating..."
"Shut up!" Harald gasped. His eyes flashed, and Ned was afraid he was about to throw the sugar bowl at the girl—the boy's hand was squeezing it so tightly it was about to split in half.
"I love to read," Ned said quickly, "can I see your books? I promise not to ruin anything, I'm very careful."
"I have no doubt," the old man looked approvingly at Ned's uniform and reproachfully at Harald, who was futilely trying to cover a sauce stain on the most visible part of his dandy uniform. "Amela, stop torturing your brother. Otherwise, you'll wake up in a puddle of icy water again. And I'll pour him two buckets myself! There are limits to everything. Now you've crossed them. After lunch, you'll perform the standard exercise routine twice."
"Can I watch?" Ned asked. "I'm very interested in how you teach martial arts! Harald told me you're a master. And when I fought him with swords, I felt the hand of a great master. No wonder he won the tournament."
"I don't mind," the old man nodded, looking at Ned carefully and as if mentally deciding something, "by the way, I forgot something."
Imar stood up, walked over to Ned, who had jumped up from his seat, and bowed low to him, pressing his hands to his chest:
- Thank you for not killing my grandson. I owe you that.
"You're welcome!" Ned said, confused, and also bowed under the girl's mocking gaze and Harald's reverent one.
"For good reason," Amela giggled. "By the way, Grandpa would have had to kill you then; he's a big believer in avenging family members. He says it keeps the enemy from thinking they can kill someone in the family with impunity. And he would have killed you, for sure. I don't know if anyone in the world can match his fighting prowess. And also—you think I'm going to practice naked? You're wrong. You won't see anything! You guys only think about looking up women's skirts!"
"Phew! Amela! Three complexes in a row!" the old man said indignantly, but his eyes were laughing, little demons dancing in them. "That's not how a lady speaks! You look like an infantry sergeant now!"
"Yes, I consider it a blessing!" Amela crunched a huge, hard apple, biting into it with her white, sharp, dog-like teeth. "It's better than looking like the neighboring hens, prissy and disgusting. I'd consider it an honor to look like a soldier!"
"Alas, these are the fruits of being raised in a male society," Imar sighed. "She lost her parents when she was only three years old. If a girl is raised in the company of soldiers, what will she be like?"
"She'll be wonderful! She'll be a beauty who'll punch any insolent man who grabs her ass," Amela snapped. "Grandfather, stop playing the pompous aristocrat in front of Ned! When you race us through the obstacle course, I hear all sorts of things! But here – you can't say 'ass'! An ass is, but you can't name it, you see! In that regard, commoners are much more honest than us. They say what they think. Right, Ned?"
"Well... not quite like that," the boy chuckled, confused and unsure how to act. He hadn't been in aristocratic homes often, so he was at a loss—he didn't know how to act or what to say. What he saw in the Shorokans' house went beyond his expectations of how aristocrats lived.
"Don't worry so much, young man," the old man seemed to read his thoughts and now smiled indulgently. "Relax, everyone here is my friend. My grandson's friends are my friends. Actually, he doesn't really have any friends. We've long since fallen out of the quiver of the powerful—the politicians and aristocrats. All we have left is honor and military skill. And the memory of the past, of our family's glorious past. Ah! There's Gitras! Can you smell him? Gitras is a connoisseur of seasonings, and today he's decided to surprise us with a special sauce. Right, Gitras?"
"True, sir!" smiled the man, a match for the master of the house—gray-haired, lean, moving not like a cook, but like a dancer or a fighter—precisely, confidently, without unnecessary movements or fussiness.
"We need one more device, Gitras. We have a guest."
"No need, sir. The young gentleman said he'll be staying with a friend somewhere in town, so have lunch without him. I've prepared the dishes."
"Isa's disappearing again?" Imar frowned and shook his head in displeasure. "The kids are getting out of hand, don't you think?"
"I don't know, sir," the old servant smiled, revealing surprisingly strong, albeit yellowish, teeth, "in my opinion, they are wonderful young people, of whom one can only be proud!"
"You're spoiling them, Gitras," the host smiled. "Bring them whatever you've prepared. I can already smell the delicious aroma. Those young people are fidgeting in their seats as if they're being bitten by ants. Are you hungry?"
For the next twenty minutes, the entire company ate in complete silence. The only sounds were the clatter of knives and the scraping of forks as they plucked succulent pieces of meat from porcelain plates adorned with the Shorokan crest.
The meat was delicious—spicy, spicy, melt-in-your-mouth. Ned had never eaten meat like this, even in the city's finest taverns. Gitras was truly a master of his craft. Once sated, everyone moved on to the hot herbal tea, sipping it with lumps of cane sugar and fruit.
Ned noticed that everyone ate moderately, not greedily, and that all the food was low-fat, fairly light, and easily digestible. This is exactly the diet for fighters enduring high levels of stress.
Finally, dinner was over, and the host invited Ned into the library. The others began to follow him, but Imar stopped them:
"Where are you going? Get changed and head to the obstacle course. Quickly, quickly—no need to make that face. You once wished to be like your brothers. I asked you, 'Are you sure? You won't squeal?' You said, 'I'm sure. I won't.' Now do it. Forward, quickly!"
Imar frowned, and the girl was blown away as if by the wind - only a thundering sound down the stairs, as if someone had thrown a pile of stones onto the steps.
"She's stomping on purpose!" Harald grinned. "When she wants to, she walks so fast she could step on a flower without crushing the stem. If you want to hear her, you won't! But did you really hear her breathing behind the hatch?"
"True," Ned shrugged. "I have keen hearing."
Harald's grandfather looked at Ned and nodded, as if confirming his observation, then pushed open the tall oak door, slightly cracked with age. Ned gasped with delight!
Rows of shelves and racks filled with thousands of books! Thousands of precious, ancient tomes and scrolls!
"Do you like it?" the old man asked approvingly, glancing slyly at Ned. "My ancestors have been collecting this for hundreds of years. My library is larger than the palace, larger than the library of the Agarians, renowned for their rare tomes."
"Why go to school? Why study somewhere else when you have a library like this?!" Ned exhaled with delight. "I'm amazed!"
"Why?" Imar chuckled. "For example, because without school, Harald himself can't get an officer's diploma, which means he can't make a military career. Don't you know that?"
"I know," Ned said guiltily. "It was breathtaking—such treasures! Can I see them?"
"Of course," the old man nodded. "Here are books on military matters. Here are books on magic. Here are scientific treatises. And here is fiction. Everything that people have written for hundreds of years, or rather, almost everything that has been written. I try to keep up with the latest publications and buy what I can. However, things haven't been so good in recent years, and there haven't been many new books. I sometimes take on orders for martial arts training when asked, but not often, only when the money for previous training runs out. Harald is fully supported, and will soon be receiving an officer's salary. But Isador will have to earn money for his training, and for Amela's dowry. Even though she cries that she'll never marry, but will join the mercenaries."
The old man looked at Ned with a smile and winked, asking:
"You're wondering why I'm telling you all this? And why not? My grandson's friend, the one he's been harping on about, sounds like you're much older than you look. A surprisingly sensible and mature man. You're not part of our circle, so you won't spread the word to the neighbors. And anyway, I'd like to talk to someone, not just my grandchildren. I rarely leave the house; the world beyond the fence disgusts me. The groceries are brought in by the boys and a servant I've known for years. The janitor, a former veteran who lives here, cleans for us. Unusual aristocrats, aren't they? We have some royal blood in our veins, yes. I'm not proud of it—I'm simply stating it as a fact."
"Can I ask you something?" Ned began hesitantly, and the old man interrupted him:
"How did we end up like this? It's easy to end up like this... You just have to keep your word and not compromise your honor. And then you'll be trampled like a forgotten toy on the city pavement. We were probably too straightforward and unyielding. Alas, it's likely that nothing can be done about it... Let's go look at the books. You'll have time to watch my granddaughter pole vault. She still has at least two hours left to go. She's a responsible and proud girl; she won't allow herself to cheat or escape punishment. Another Shorokan! That's who we are..."
"This is in an ancient language... And this is the basics of magic. I've read it, I know it almost by heart. And this is geography... wow, with pictures! I'd like to read it!"
"Come over and read to us. Is it okay if I'm on first-name terms? You're the same age as my eldest grandson, so I'd be more comfortable with that..."
"Of course, of course! I don't mind," Ned smiled, and his hard face seemed to light up, "I'd be honored!"
"Good boy," the old man nodded. "You see, here's the thing… I never let anyone take books out of the house. They're too valuable for me to risk them. That's why my library is still intact. You can come here and read as much as you like. You can stay overnight – there's plenty of space in this house, of course. More than enough space, even." The servant is running around dusting this place. If it weren't for the library, I might have sold it long ago and bought a small, decent house for the four of us. Study hard, Harald – look how your friend lovingly picks up books! Like little children! And you? Ehhh… Okay, boys, let's see how our little one hops around. Quite a sight, I tell you…"
And the spectacle was truly fascinating: a small figure darted around the platform, fighting an invisible enemy, and not just one, running up a log wall, jumping from a height of several man's heights, contorting her body into impossible poses, freezing as if gravity had no hold on her. Noticing the spectators, she stopped what she was doing and, approaching her grandfather, asked:
"Can I try beating them both? Instead of the usual set of exercises? Will that be okay? I've already completed one set. I'm starting the second one."
"If you beat them both, I'll cancel all your classes for today," the old man smiled. "And if you lose, you'll study for four hours, at an accelerated pace. Do you agree?"
"I agree!" Amela blurted out without a shadow of a doubt. "And do they agree?"
"How are you guys? Want to beat up the snob?" the old man grinned.
"Always ready!" Harald said curtly and, without hesitation, ran into the house. "I'll change!"
"And you, Ned, wouldn't you mind training a little with my granddaughter? Are you good at unarmed combat? You're perfectly capable with a sword—I know that for a fact. Anyone who managed to defeat Harald deserves the highest award. The boy truly is a magnificent master, and his speed and strength would make even a wild beast envious—just don't tell him that, he'll get cocky. So what? Will you fight Amela?"
"He's scared!" the girl whistled triumphantly. "Grandpa, he's scared!"
"I'm afraid," Ned nodded his head affirmatively.
"Wait, granddaughter. Ned, are you afraid of harming her?" Imar asked shrewdly, watching Ned examine the wooden structures dug into the platform.
"Yes, I'm afraid. It barely reaches my shoulder, so what, am I supposed to try to smash its face in with my fist? Break its arm or its neck? Forgive me, but this all seems wrong to me. If I may, could you tell me where you got the designs for these devices? Did you come up with them yourself or did someone suggest them?"
"Hmm... I read something in books, saw something—I can't remember where. Do you like them? They're all here—for balance, for speed, strength training machines. You won't see these anywhere else. Have you seen anything like this before?"
"No. I didn't see it," Ned explained vaguely, turning his gaze to Harald, who was already dressed in a dark suit—wide trousers, a loose jacket, and soft leather boots with soft soles. Ned was familiar with such boots; they were used in school classes when they went out onto the martial arts ring. They were less likely to injure you than the regular officers' boots with hobnailed toes.
"Your friend refuses to hit your sister," the old man said mockingly. "He says it's a shame to hit such a beauty with a fist. So the fight is off."
"He's just afraid of me!" Amela protested. "And anyway, that's not what he said. He didn't say anything about beauty! He said he's afraid he'll cripple me with his big fist! Who would have let him cripple me, the naive dreamer!"
"Hmm... well, I really wanted to give that snob a good kick," Harald said, frustrated. "Your job is just to catch her and hold her, and I'll give her a kick myself. Come on, Ned, huh? Put on my suit, I've got a few extras, and let's go running! It's fun!"
"Will there be a need to hit?" Ned hesitated.
"If you don't want to, you don't have to!" Harald grinned broadly, his sharp, predatory face seeming to light up from within. "You'll also get to try out our training equipment. You'll see how our own grandfather mercilessly squeezes the last bit of life out of us, despite the tears."
"Yeah, cry some more, complain to a friend," the old man winked mockingly, "maybe he'll regret it. He might, but life won't. I'm preparing you to face it, cruel and unfair, so you can fight back. I haven't made you rich, I can only give you a title and skill. Even if you don't want it."
"It's a pity Isa isn't here," Harald said thoughtfully, "the three of us would have definitely beaten the toadstool!"
- What, so serious?
- Yeah... you can't even imagine! It's a demoness!
"Then I'm simply obliged to help you exorcise the demons," Ned smiled. "Where did you say I should change?"
Ten minutes later, Ned stood on the landing, dressed identically to Harald. His friend's clothes fit him perfectly, tailored with room for growth. Amela stood on the opposite side of the landing, smiling happily. When her grandfather turned away, she gave Ned an obscene gesture, earning a reproachful shake of the head. This amused her even more, and Amela jumped up and clapped her hands.
"The objective is to land or simulate as many blows on the opponent as possible, each of which can incapacitate them. There are no rules for how this is done. Five such blows means defeat. The time limit is half an hour. Let's begin!"
The old man stepped aside and sat down on a wooden chair set up under the canopy—apparently this was where he always sat while his charges ran and jumped around the training ground. Then he froze, like a statue of the Creator—white hair, white beard. This is how the chief god is usually depicted—seated on a cloud, looking down condescendingly at the earth where his wayward children scurried about.
"You go right, I'll go left! We'll chase her into the corner, then you grab her and hold her while I hit her! And watch out—she kicks just as hard as she punches—painfully. If you don't want to end up with bruises, watch her movements. Let's go!"
The boys rushed towards the giggling girl, she waited boredly until they almost reached her, then suddenly jumped up and, doing an impossible somersault, flew onto the swinging log, kicking Harald in the head.
"One hit!" Imar stated mercilessly.
"See? What a bastard!" his friend exhaled furiously, shaking his bruised head and rushing toward the girl swinging on the log. Ned ran after him, choking with laughter – he was beginning to enjoy this outrage.
The girl let them come closer, and when Harald tried to grab her leg, she jumped and, pushing off the top of his head, flew onto a nearby post standing next to a swaying log. Harald rubbed the top of his head, and the old man stated:
- Two!
"No, that won't work," Harald shook his head in frustration. "We need to think of some kind of tactic. She runs along the poles like a cat, and it's harder to take her down from a height than to kill her on the ground. Hey, idiot! If you want to win, get down! We're not going to chase you like idiots! Time's up, and you lose! That's it, stand up and don't move! You can sit there on the pole and shit like a bird! What a great idea, huh? Tell me! Time's up – and that's it! I'm the boss! Ouch! You scum! You filth!"
"Three!" the old man said calmly. "A hit from a pipe is considered fatal—it could have been shooting poisoned arrows, not peas."
– Come here! We'll hide behind the wall – it won't finish us off! Ouch! The creature! It jumped over! No, these are some stupid rules!
- Four! One more hit and you're out, Harald.
"Let's run! Make sure she doesn't get too close! As soon as she puts the phone to her mouth, jump out of the way! She'll get a win! Let's go!"
Ned ran around the playground, dodging Amela's "arrows," and nearly fell over laughing, imagining how it all looked from the outside: two burly men, each weighing nearly a hundred kilograms, fleeing from a tiny girl who barely reached their shoulders. They hid under pillars, beams, and hid behind fences. Finally, the clock was running out, and Harald cried out joyfully:
"Another ten minutes and she'll be finished! Hold on, friend! Let the damned demoness perish... Ouch!"
Somehow, Amela found herself next to them and, jumping to the ground, struck her brother in the back of the head with a swift blow, causing him to howl, clutching his head in his hands. Her leg, as if boneless, flashed through the air, whistling like a crossbow bolt.
Ned jumped aside and assumed a fighting stance. The girl's fighting style reminded him of the one who had disappeared through the dark window, giving him a mocking smile as she left.
Harald stepped aside, cursing, as a hail of blows rained down on Ned—powerful, but, as he realized, not quite at full force. The girl was genuinely trying not to hurt him too much.
Ned settled into a fighting rhythm and felt the power flow through his body's spiritual channels. He gently parried the blows, deflecting them with his hand, holding the splinters at arm's length from his body.
The girl was stunning—she twisted, writhed, flailed, lashed out with her arms and legs, grabbed his arm, trying to throw him to the ground, but to no avail. Ned looked at her with his green eyes, smiling slightly, and caught all her "shots" the way a cat catches a mouse—lazily and thoughtfully, as if debating whether to eat her or not.
The girl grew angry, sped up, and launched her blows with full force—each one capable of breaking, crushing, or killing an unprepared or clumsy man. But it made no difference. Every blow sank like a springy dough or whistled past like spent arrows. Ned could have stood there for hours, because he found it amusing to watch the girl rage, getting no results. Suddenly, she stopped and stepped back, smiling and dropping her hands to her sides.
- That's it. I give up. You win!
She slowly approached Ned, looked him in the eye, and, throwing her arms around his neck, brought her lips to his. Ned stared, mesmerized, into her dark eyes until he discovered a sharp-nailed finger pressed against an artery in her neck.
Chirk!
And a ringing voice said:
"You're dead! You men are so predictable! Just imagine yourself as such a real man, the kind that drives women crazy, and you lose your strength!"
"Where did you get all this?" Ned chuckled.
"I'm reading books," Amela laughed.
"We lost," came the old man's voice, "a clear victory of reason over strength and skill. It's worth noting, Amela, that in a real fight he would have killed you already. Right at the start of the duel. He was enjoying himself. He was having fun. But Ned can jump on walls just as well as you. Right, Ned?"
"True," Ned nodded slowly, "how do you know?"
"I figured it out," the old man shrugged serenely. "Would you like to try it with me? Without weapons. I'd be very interested. And a lesson for the youth. How are you? Are you up to it?"
- Hmm... I don't mind. Terms?
- Five minutes. No time limits.
"Grandpa, what are you doing?!" Amela gasped. "You're going to kill him! Stop it! What's wrong with you?!"
"Why would he kill me? Aren't you afraid I might hurt him?" Ned asked coldly. "Your grandfather wants to test something. I'm ready."
- Good. Amela, get off the court. Whatever happens, don't interfere. Let's get started!
The old man was transformed. From a slightly sleepy, gray-haired man, he had transformed into an ancient, gray-haired, yet incredibly dangerous beast. A beast that had been through countless scrapes and emerged alive only thanks to skill, cunning, animal strength, and agility. Before him stood a contender for the territory, the pride, the hunting grounds! A young impudent man who must be killed! Ripped apart! Feast on his hot blood!
The beast growled and struck several lightning-fast, invisible blows with its open claws. The young male didn't give up and met them with short swipes of his paw, catching the old man's shoulder, which immediately became stained with blood. The two beasts leaped apart, the young one hissed, crouching low in an impossible pose, and the old man's mind registered: "School of the Snake. Northern Ispas."
The beast tried to knock the head off this poisonous reptile, it pecked him in the head, leaving a mark in the form of a bloody scratch, it jumped back, but did not have time - the beast's paw drew three bloody stripes on the snake's head.
"Stop! Time's up!" came the girl's ringing voice, and the opponents emerged from their battle trance, disengaging. Their chests heaved with the incredible tension of the duel—never before had either of them fought barehanded with such intensity, never had they encountered fighters of such caliber. For the first time, they had met their match.
The old man walked up to Ned, looking him intently in the eyes, and said slowly:
"Shanzo. Snake style. Northern Ispas. Boy, who are you? This style is forgotten. Northern Ispas is destroyed. You can't master this style, especially not at the level of Atroc. Once again, who are you?"
Ned looked up at him and thought, "If only I knew the answer to that question!"