— Well, hello there, boy. My name is Turgas, — the fat man kept licking his dry, cracked lips, smacking them as if savoring his own filth.
He grinned arrogantly, convinced he had full control of the situation.
At that moment, a stench so sharp and corrosive slammed into Endel's nose that his eyes watered instantly.
The air reeked of rancid grease mixed with sour smoke, the kind of odor that made you want to tear the skin off your face.
Endel barely restrained the urge to vomit.
"Holy shit! How can anyone stink this bad? Has this moron never washed since childhood?!" the Third howled inside his head, as if he too could smell it.
Although he couldn't share Endel's physical pain, the stench seeped into his consciousness at full strength.
Clenching his teeth to suppress the gag reflex and ignoring the Third's hysterics, Endel cast a sidelong glance at the three lackeys.
They simultaneously winced and turned away, their expressions saying more than words ever could.
As for the pig himself—Turgas—he stared harder at Endel.
But the longer he looked, the uglier his own face seemed, like a reflection on dirty, trembling jelly.
The smell seemed to grow stronger.
"Not your imagination! Kill this pig already!" the Third shrieked.
He was already nauseous, grateful only that he couldn't actually vomit—unlike Endel, who had swallowed down the urge three times already.
For some reason, the fat man began to tremble.
His face twitched, the fat on his cheeks jiggled like lard in a frying pan.
His body jerked as if shocked by some inner current.
The hand holding the sword shook violently, as though he could barely manage its weight.
Endel grew cautious—one more spasm, and the pig might accidentally jab the blade straight into his throat.
Then the lackeys froze.
Endel immediately understood why.
The tiny black bead-like eyes of Turgas locked with his own icy, glacier-blue gaze. The fat man shuddered even harder—and suddenly, tears poured down his face.
A real flood.
Followed by thick, slimy snot, as if a dam had burst.
— Whuaaah… Why is he so handsome, so well-dressed, so strong? His eyes are so beautiful, his voice so pleasant, he even smells nice… beautiful, always beautiful! Why can't I be like him? — Turgas wailed, his face drenched in tears and mucus.
"What the…?" The Third blinked in disbelief.
And not only him—Endel, too, stood frozen, watching Turgas smear tears and snot across his face while babbling even stranger things.
— I… hhic… I w-want… hhic… to be handsome too… hhic… — bawled Turgas, sobbing like a child.
"If he keeps leaking fluids, we'll drown in them soon!" the Third muttered, still stunned.
Turgas kept crying, muttering endlessly.
With each passing second, Endel felt his anger rise.
He needed to meet his friends and family in the safe zone. But first he had to get there—through danger, through the risk of death.
And yet this… this pathetic swine had wasted ten minutes sobbing, whining about his own misery—while holding a sword right to his face.
Of course Endel was boiling over.
His fingers twitched with the urge to rip the creature's throat out. His body screamed at him to act now.
KILL! KILL! KILL!
For a heartbeat, he even considered giving in—slaughtering the pig and jumping into the fourth regression.
"Calm down, he's already settling down," the Third intervened, sensing Endel's rising fury.
The lackeys also noticed Endel's dangerous stillness. They tensed, ready to intervene—only to pause as Endel suddenly reined himself back.
He exhaled slowly, regaining composure.
The man with the pistol at his temple thought: "Such control… incredible."
Endel ignored him and turned his cold gaze toward the pig's lackeys.
As expected, they only shrugged, offering no answers.
He looked back at Turgas, who finally quieted down.
Only then did Endel speak:
— Can we talk now? — he asked evenly.
Turgas nodded, lowering the sword.
He wiped his face with a rag offered by a man named Doberman.
Everyone waited.
Finally, Turgas finished smearing himself clean and, with a wet smack, tossed the rag aside.
Endel frowned.
This had been his refuge for days, and such disrespect gnawed at him more than he wanted to admit.
"Remember this moment," the Third hissed.
Endel did.
Turgas flopped onto the couch, sprawling like it was his throne, and sneered:
— Here, I speak. You listen, puppy.
Endel stayed silent, his eyes cold but his thoughts uneasy.
In front of him sat a ridiculous creature, moods shifting like the wind.
"If he's even human…" the Third grimaced, glancing at the floor smeared with spit, snot, and slime, radiating unbearable stench.
The pig—Turgas—went on:
— You have two choices. Either we kill you here and now, or you help us reach our base. Then, maybe… — he paused, savoring the words, — we'll let you go.
He snapped his fingers, and the air seemed to grow colder.
— Two minutes to decide. Time starts now.
He lit a cigarette, puffing smoke rings into Endel's face.
"Maybe we really should just kill him?" the Third whispered suddenly, his voice colder than ever.
Endel stiffened—he had never heard such murderous intent from him.
"Kidding!" the Third added.
Endel wanted to punch him for that.
But Turgas mistook the tension for fear and smirked smugly.
The lackeys remained on edge.
Endel considered his options. One was to kill Turgas and reset into the fourth regression.
But he hated that idea. To start over again… too risky. Do it once, and you'll do it again, and again.
No, that path was ruin.
"Agreed. Let's not even consider it," the Third said.
"Then what?" Endel asked.
There was only one choice left: cooperate. Even if it ruined his plans.
Even if, in principle, he despised helping them.
"We've got no choice," the Third sighed, glancing at the pistol still aimed at them.
Endel knew it too.
He spoke coldly:
— Where are we going?
The lackeys brightened, while Turgas grinned, stroking his sword.
— You'll find out tomorrow morning. Then, I'll even give you this sword to protect us.
He stood, cigar in hand, and waddled off to another room, adding over his shoulder:
— No rash moves, puppy.
He slammed the door.
Doberman posted himself outside, guarding like a loyal hound. Another lackey collapsed on the couch.
The pistol man glanced apologetically at Endel:
— Sorry, kid, but this is how it has to be. Get some rest. You fought hard—you must be tired.
Endel didn't move.
If they'd seen him fight, then they'd been watching for a long time. Valuable information.
— I won't sleep on that couch. I'll take the floor, — he said calmly.
The pistol man nodded, understanding. The couch still reeked of nuclear stench.
"Third, your shift," Endel whispered inwardly, lying down on the floor with a pillow and blanket.
"Don't worry. I'll find out what we need," the Third replied, slapping his phantom chest proudly.
Endel drifted into sleep.
Only his steady breathing filled the room.
The pistol man and Doberman watched, stunned at how easily he'd settled down, as if nothing had happened.
— What kind of madman did we capture? — the pistol man murmured.
Doberman stayed silent.
The pistol man—Margeres—sighed, then glanced back at the boy.
He poked Endel's silver armor with his gun. No reaction.
He pinched his cheek—still nothing.
— He's really asleep? — Margeres frowned. He had expected some trick. But no—Endel had simply lain down and dozed off.
For a moment Margeres just stared at his young face. Then he muttered quietly:
— You know… he looks like my daughter. About her age… She was…
Doberman stiffened but, hearing Turgas's snores, relaxed.
Furious, he grabbed Margeres by the collar, hissing:
— Do you even realize what you just said? If Turgas had heard—
But Margeres only chuckled, unfazed.
— So what? What do I have to lose? Same as you, Doberman. Or should I say… Olong?
Doberman's eyes widened, but he held his composure, shoving Margeres back.
— I still value my life, — he muttered, returning to guard duty.
Margeres straightened his shirt and sat near Endel, still staring at him.
No one knew what he was thinking.
The Third, though blind to the scene, had heard everything. It intrigued him.
He hadn't grasped all of it, but enough to be useful.
"Interesting…" the Third whispered, smiling faintly.