"Put this on. What's with the scowl? This is your uniform now that you've joined the Agar. You're a soldier, after all; you should understand discipline—every unit has its own uniform. So don't put on a sour face and dress like a mage. I picked out the size for you—I think it should fit. Is it right? Sure, in the shoulders, but a bit wide in the hips. You've got some fat, demonologist. I'll have to start fattening you up. It's funny—I look at you and think—how times change! Could I ever have imagined I'd be putting a shirt and pants on a real demonologist! The world has turned upside down!"
"So what?" Ned muttered, watching the burly, massive mage pull boots from his knapsack—the same kind he'd seen on other mages. "So what if I'm a demonologist? I didn't ask for this ability, I didn't want it—what's wrong with me having it?"
"You're definitely not of this world!" the mage chuckled, approaching Ned and tapping his forehead lightly with his finger. "Just imagine living for many, many years, and every day of those long years, you're dedicated, in addition to your immediate duties, to finding and eradicating Evil. Including demonologists. And then Evil appears, and... zap! Nothing! What's more, you could get hit on the head for eradicating this evil! How's that for you?"
"Nonsense," Ned retorted confidently, "complete nonsense! There is no such thing as absolute evil! It can't be! It's evil for some, and good for others. If my demonologist abilities are used for the benefit of people, what's evil in that? The persecution of demonologists was a state act aimed at eradicating those who had gained too much power in the state. Those whom kings feared. And it has nothing to do with eradicating evil from the world at large.
"How do you know?" Gerlat asked ingratiatingly. "So you remember it? Where did this memory come from?"
"I don't know," Ned muttered, pulling on his shirt, "I don't know. I just remember."
– Do you remember the spells? You know, the ones demonologists use?
"I remember, but they don't work," Ned admitted.
"And what do you feel when you say them? Do you experience any sensations? Pleasant or, on the contrary, unpleasant?" Gerlat asked matter-of-factly, examining Ned as if he were a strange animal.
"Unpleasant. It even makes me feel nauseous when it doesn't work," Ned grimaced. "No matter how many times I've tried to cast a spell, it always makes me nauseous. Don't even try again."
"If you don't try, you'll remain burned out," the mage shook his head. "Now listen to me carefully. I am your mentor, and I will teach you. And I must determine what you know and what you don't. So answer me honestly, without deception. Okay? I'm not a council of mages, and this information will not go further than my tent. You have the right not to trust me, yes. But… tell me – who is your authority, who could vouch for me? Who could tell you that I am who I say I am, and that I am trustworthy? Someone from the corps who knows me and is an authority to you. Are there any?"
- Hmm... Zheresar? Do you communicate with him?
"Of course I'm talking," Gerlat chuckled, "great. Right now. Get dressed now..."
The mage emerged from the tent. He'd been gone for about ten minutes, during which time Ned had managed to dress and put on his shoes—the boots were a bit big, but if you put on the foot wraps… The new clothes—Ned liked them—good fabric, high-quality tailoring—as for a high-ranking officer. The mage's insignia was on his forearm—his was white; Gerlat must have given him clothes from his own stash. Because of this, the pants fit comfortably in the shoulders—Ned had a lot of broadening in the shoulders—and hung loosely at the bottom, as if on a hanger—narrow-hipped, thin-framed Ned couldn't fill out these pants properly.
"Come in, Kosta," came the mage's voice, and the tent opening was filled with two massive figures, one larger than the other. Zheresar stumbled into the tent, somehow filling it immediately, shrinking it to the size of a duffel bag. It was already dark outside, so it took him a while to adjust to the bright light—Gerlat had hung the magic sphere from the ceiling, on the pole holding up the roof. And when he blinked and saw Ned, his eyebrows shot up in surprise.
"You?! A mage?! Oh, my gods... and what's going on in this world! What a surprise, Gerlat... you've really got me... And really, I won't be disappointed. So what's the problem, why did you invite me? To show Ned off in his new clothes? He's not a woman to be stared at. What did you expect? I've got plenty of work to do after this bloodbath, hurry up."
Ned looked into the healer's broad face, and a slight pang of regret pierced his heart—the healer didn't meet his eyes, as if embarrassed by something or... embarrassed for him. Ned's memories of Yuragor remained with him, and he recalled how Zheresar had been bitterly disappointed by "Ned's" behavior, his cruelty, his boorish treatment of his subordinates and those around him. And he was deeply worried that Ned had become like this. Therefore, he didn't want to look at Ned now.
"Kosta, here's the thing – I was appointed this young man's mentor today. But he doesn't trust me. It would hinder his training. I could give up and teach him any way I can, but you know I never do anything half-assed. And I need Ned's trust. So I asked him who in the Corps could vouch for me, someone he trusted completely, and then he named you. That's why I invited you. Can you vouch for me? Say that I won't use the information I gave him to harm him and that he can trust me?"
"I can," Zheresar said seriously, "but do I have the right to do that? I don't know what information you're asking him for, because... The only thing I can say is, Ned, I've known this man for twenty years. I've never seen him do anything mean or blab on everyone about things that shouldn't be blabbered. I consider him as trustworthy as I am. And now it's up to you to decide—you live."
The doctor shrugged and, without looking at Ned, moved toward the entrance. He had already touched the door flap with his hand when Ned, nervous, stopped him.
– Please wait! I need to say a few words to you before you go. Please!
"Well… I can stay a couple of minutes if you ask," the doctor reluctantly agreed, "just make it short, okay?"
"It wasn't me," Ned said, as if he'd just thrown himself into icy water. "My body was taken over by someone else. And he was the one acting like a jerk. I'm sorry."
"What do you mean?!" Zheresar raised his eyebrows and looked Ned in the eye. "So it wasn't you who was the heartless brute, but someone else? How come? Did you just come up with this now?"
"Wait, Costa!" Gerlat asked, intrigued. "Come on, come on, tell me more! Who is this man, and how did he end up in your brain?"
"His name is Yuragor. He is the leader of the Shirduan sect. A demonologist, a mage. How did he end up inside me? I don't know. Before he was inside me, I was a simple shepherd, an orphan, a foundling. And then... then magical abilities began to manifest. Now I can't perform magic, but I remember some of what Yuragor remembered."
"Wow!" Zheresar gasped softly. "Gerlat, you're on a roll today. Do you have anything else like that, something that'll knock the wind out of me like that?"
"Wait a minute, Kosta! The boy trusted us, don't tell anyone! Otherwise, his life will be a living hell, that's for sure. I read about this Yuragor—an ambiguous and dark figure, as dark as the night sky without stars. He was a very, very powerful man. And what Ned told you about was a personality transfer using demonology magic. It seems to me that Ned grabbed some artifact that transferred Yuragor's consciousness into the boy's brain. But there's one thing. Did you know that if Ned hadn't had magical abilities, he wouldn't have been able to become a demonologist? That means he was a demonologist from the start! And Yuragor just happened to end up in a vessel prepared for him, called Ned! That's such a crazy thing... Wait! And where did this Yuragor go? If he took over Ned's body, how did he manage to free himself? It's practically impossible, as far as I know.
"How do you know?" Zheresar asked quickly, eyeing Ned with concern. The healer's face had relaxed, and there was no longer the expression of annoyance and slight disgust that Ned had seen earlier, a few days ago, when the healer looked at him.
"No—why bother asking stupid questions?!" Gerlat chuckled with annoyance. "From books, of course! It's all described, it's all in treatises on magic—not for public consumption, of course. These treatises are in the library of Higher Agara. I was once very interested in history, and especially the history of magic. I spent many days and months poring over these treatises, trying to understand the principle of transferring consciousness from body to body. Can you imagine the possibilities this opens up? It's the path to eternal life! Just imagine—you die, and before you die, you transfer your consciousness into the body of another person! And you live again! Can you imagine, Kosta, what that's like?!"
"What about the person you transfer your consciousness into?" the healer asked unexpectedly. "Have you thought about that?"
"He disappears. That person's identity disappears. Forever. You mean it's wrong to destroy another person so you can live? Come on... there are so many people in the world who definitely shouldn't live—is it worth thinking about them? For example, criminals of all stripes. Murderers, rapists. Why pity them?"
"This is dangerous, evil knowledge," Zheresar shook his head. "Imagine if those in power, those with no principles whatsoever, got their hands on it. What could they do, have you thought? I'm beginning to think those demonologists were hounded for a reason. With their knowledge, it's better to be in the grave. Sorry, Ned, that's not about you. So how did you get rid of Yuragor? Your mentor says it's impossible. So what happened?"
Ned sighed and began his story. When he finished, the healer and the mage were silent for a few minutes, then Gerlat said:
"There's so much mystery in the world! We don't know a grain of sand among the entire sandy shore of the unknown! Do you think these were real visions? The gods, the late Zadara, the dog? Kosta, what do you think?"
"Better ask Ned, I wonder what he'll say? Eh, Ned? What do you think about it?"
"Me? You're kidding," Ned chuckled. "How should I know? What I saw was as real as you. Do you think it's just a figment of my mind's imagination? Maybe so. I don't understand."
"Interesting," Zheresar nodded. "Perhaps his visions were self-inflicted. Ned's consciousness was fighting for control of his body, and... it invented helpers. But in reality, he himself expelled the invader from his brain. But... anything is possible. I'm no longer a young man, and I've seen all sorts of things. Perhaps the gods intervened, why not?"
"I think so too," Gerlat nodded. "He most likely threw this Yuragor out of himself. Only memories of him remain. But how he managed to do it is beyond comprehension. Apparently, he really wanted to live... I have one question. Ned, do you remember the consciousness transfer spell?"
For some reason, Ned thought Gerlat even froze, as if afraid to scare off the prey. Looking at the alarmed Zheresar, at the mage almost jumping up and down with excitement, Ned said sadly:
"No, I don't remember. There's a hole in my memory there. Apparently, that knowledge disappeared with Yuragor."
"Thank the gods!" the healer sighed with relief, and Ned remembered dozens of corpses with slit throats, their blood flowing into a stone basin. No, under no circumstances could he trust this secret to anyone. No-one!
* * *
That night, Ned slept in a tent with two mage brothers, Igar and Magar. They kept him awake for a long time, tormenting him with all sorts of stupid questions about his service, his fate, and everything else that interested them about the strange man named Ned.
When they were convinced that they would achieve nothing - Ned only remained silent, smiling ironically - they fell behind and lay down on their camp beds, snorting resentfully and muttering under their breath about how some of the village punks were too arrogant to talk to their comrades.
"Pentyukh" heard everything perfectly well, but he didn't want to quarrel, especially since the boys were cheerful and good-natured—even when they got angry and called him childish names, why be offended? Well, kids will be kids. Adults might spank them for being unruly and naughty, but to be offended—that would be stupid.
Both boys, like Ned, were students, disciples of the Archmage Gerlat. Ned hadn't yet fully grasped the Agaran system, so he was perplexed—how could students accompany their master to war? Why on earth? Why were they dragged along? But resolving such questions was a matter for the future. That wasn't the right time to think about that. What? Many, many questions... and the first was his fate. What lay ahead? And what inheritance had he inherited from Yuragor? Had there even been one?
Lying in the dark tent, listening to the snoring of his two new comrades, Ned lay awake, searching within himself—what had happened to him after he had destroyed Yuragor? Destroyed? Wrong again. He hadn't destroyed anything. He had absorbed him. Yes—that was the correct definition. He had absorbed Yuragor! He had dissolved him within himself, the way one dissolves water and food.
The memory remained—and indeed, not all of it. Ned wasn't lying when he told Gerlath and Zheresar this. After all, Yuragor hadn't managed to fully take root in his body—and thank the gods! If it had, if it had managed to completely take over every corner of his brain—what would have happened then? For Ned, there would have been nothing. Nothing at all. Worse than death. A soul consumed by a demon. A demon?
And here the question arose: where had the demon gone? It had been in Ned, carrying the information extracted from Yuragor's personality, implanting itself in Ned's body, and then suddenly vanished?
Ned sighed—his head ached and his nose itched from intense thought. Scratching his nostril with pleasure, Ned smiled in the darkness and grew serious again—so where had the demon gone?
To answer this question, we must first understand what a demon is. And especially what a high-ranking demon is. To do this, we must know what demons are, what kind of entities they are, and why they exist in this world.
Here lies the biggest question... one that has yet to be answered by anyone. Not a single scientist, not a single magician. So why expect a simple adept, a student of a white magician, to answer a question that has occupied the world's most learned people for thousands of years?
There were many theories, many hypotheses, revealing the origins of demons and defining their essence, but no one could claim that their conclusions were the only correct ones. But do people really know more about the stars? About the sky? About the moons? About the sun, which gives life to everything in the world?
So, there's a fact. And it can be defined in dozens of ways, from the most fantastical to the mundanely boring. And which one is true? Who knows? As one of the magical scientists said, "Is this idea crazy enough to be true?"
So, the demon carrying Yuragor's informational copy dissolved into Ned's body, leaving behind memories completely foreign to Ned. From the black mage's childhood memories to his abilities, most of which were now inaccessible to Ned.
Yes, as for his abilities, some of them disappeared, and some remained with him.
What remained? His physical skills, already ingrained in Ned's blood and flesh. He knew how to fight the way Yuragor did. And what's more, Ned had developed these skills under the tutelage of a master swordsman, perfected them, and now, if he were to fight THAT Yuragor, it was anyone's guess who would win—unless, of course, the dark mage had used his magical abilities.
But magic was a sad situation. A real sad one. Ned wasn't lying when he said he couldn't cast a single magical spell. The simplest of them, which he could previously perform even with his eyes closed—forming a bright orb-like lantern—caused such a violent wave of nausea that everything he'd eaten threatened to fly out of him in a magnificent fountain. And that was only a first-level spell... What could one say about higher-level spells?
Yes—Ned knew many higher spells, even ones the local mages hadn't even suspected. Most of these spells were aimed at harming a person or a group of people. Many of them used human blood as an ingredient—and that's not surprising. After all, Yuragor was a black mage, not a healer like Zaragor or Gerlath.
In fact, as far as Ned knew, all white mages could heal. All of them, without exception. Black mages only maimed; they couldn't heal. That was how they differed—black mages maimed, white mages healed. But overall, their spells were similar, they learned the same way, but white mages could heal—black mages couldn't. And there was nothing that could be done about it. It just wasn't meant to be, and that was that. The machinations of the gods, of course.
One of their jokes involves two twins, two absolutely identical-looking guys (you can only tell them apart by looking closely) – one a white mage, the other a black mage. Why? Why did the gods play such a joke? As they say, ask them yourself.
What did Ned have ahead of him? Life, probably. Unless, of course, it was cut short. The Shirduan would never abandon their plan to kill him. Never. He knew this clearly; Yuragor's memory helpfully supplied him with information about the structure and capabilities of these cultists. The Shatrii, these scout-killers, could do things other killers could only dream of. Even without magic, they were as dangerous as the Corps is a group of pitchfork-wielding peasants. Nothing could stop the Shirduan killers—except... fellow Shatrii. Or Atrocs.
The Atroks were truly terrifying—just imagine the Shatrii, a perfect weapon, nearly invincible in combat, armed with deadly magic. Yuragor was such a being, standing out even among his peers with his seemingly limitless abilities and ruthlessness, akin to a wild predator. He was well-bred and trained, with worthy teachers…
Ned knew that he would still have to meet with this very Silena, the head of the current Shirduan, otherwise he would fall asleep every night without the certainty that he would wake up the next day.
What would happen when Ned met Silena, he didn't know. Would he make a deal with her? Kill her? Who knows... if he had to, he would. No—what else could he do? He couldn't risk his life. Ned intended to live long, happily, and avoid being killed for as long as possible. On this, he was in complete agreement with Yuragor.
And yet, Yuragor hadn't gone anywhere; it was still within him. With all its brutality, with its notions of justice and fairness. Although he couldn't control Ned's body now, he had left his mark on the boy's personality. Ned was no longer the good-natured peasant boy he once was. Now he was capable of both revenge and committing small evils for a greater cause.
But aren't all people like that? Perhaps by absorbing Yuragor's personality, Ned had become whole. He was no longer as white as the snow on the summit of Black Mountain, nor as black as the dungeons of the sewer system.
He turned gray... some white, some black. Previously, he would have been tormented by the thought that some Isfirian boy had died to give him life, pierced by a demonic sword. Now, he only regretfully acknowledged that the boy had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. And that's all... It's a pity, yes. He pities everyone so much. And you can't pity everyone enough.
With this life-affirming thought, Ned fell asleep, placing his swords beside him on his camp bed. He wasn't afraid that Yuragor would take over his mind while he slept—somehow Ned knew that wouldn't happen. No Yuragor! Or was there? Perhaps he himself was Yuragor?
Who is he now? Ned-Yuragor? Ned Yuragor. Probably so.