I despise bureaucracy. No, that's not strong enough—I LOATHE BUREAUCRACY!
In my previous life, I was largely spared this tiresome companion of human society, but here I am, confronted by it in this one. And to think I came here to relax!
These wretches make your life exponentially harder if they don't see a ring on your finger signifying a powerful Lineage. While I waited, a dozen aristocrats were served ahead of me, without queues or complications. They simply stated their needs, and it was done.
As old Mac used to say, "War is war, but lunch is on schedule!" I have time for Rifts and earning money, but I must finally address restoring the Galaktionov name, impossible without my Lineage estate. After all, beyond growing stronger, I came here to amass capital to resolve these issues. I needed to start somewhere.
I could rely on only two advisors: Archip and Androsov. The former would likely suggest a solution, but my gut told me it wouldn't be entirely legal. Why invite such complications?
So, I consulted my "walking encyclopedia" in advance. Andryukha didn't disappoint, though he asked for a day to think. He gave me the address of a reputable legal firm, well-known in the Empire's capital with a branch in Irkutsk. Its advantage was its main office in Irkutsk, led by Raphael Goldsmith, while his sons managed branches, the eldest heading the St. Petersburg office.
I hesitated before contacting professionals but then thought, why not? If you need monsters slain, you hire Slayers, so the best hunter for bureaucracy is a seasoned lawyer—especially one with such an intriguing surname.
Exiting the taxi and surveying the scene, I reaffirmed my choice. The nine-story building, located in the city center near the Imperial Administration, outshone its neighbor. A massive "Pawnshop" sign adorned the ground floor, from which two grim Slayers emerged, casting sullen glances my way.
Smaller signs read "Goldsmith & Sons Trading Company," "Goldsmith Bank," and others. Evidently, Mr. Goldsmith dabbled in more than law, showcasing his broad expertise.
I waited briefly in a luxurious ninth-floor reception, where a bony, elderly secretary, noting my Slayer ring, approved my audience.
Tasty coffee eased the wait, and exactly forty minutes later, I was invited inside.
Raphael Goldsmith, surprisingly, was a sturdy man of about sixty, dressed in a nondescript, clean but old suit. He seemed indifferent to the pomp favored by local aristocracy, though a gold Lineage head ring gleamed on his middle finger.
"How may I assist you, Lord Galaktionov?" he asked, his sharp gaze that of a man weary of life.
I placed papers from the Imperial Archive on his desk.
"I'm facing difficulties claiming my inheritance, Mr. Goldsmith," I said, smiling as I sat in the chair he indicated.
The lawyer didn't glance at the papers, only at his computer monitor. My intuition suggested it held more information than my dusty folders. How had he reviewed it, given the constant stream of visitors?
"A 'slight difficulty'?" Raphael smiled. "You're quite the optimist, young man!"
I raised an eyebrow, awaiting elaboration.
"From what I see, achieving this will be not just difficult but nearly impossible!"
"Impossible?" I echoed.
"I said 'nearly,'" he replied with a hint of smugness. "You've come to the right person, and I'll do my utmost to assist!"
"Do my utmost?" I smiled.
"You catch the essence, young man!" he squinted. "I can help, but many factors are at play. First, I mean no offense, but our services are costly."
"How much for *your* services? I want you, not your firm, handling my case—no offense, Mr. Goldsmith," I widened my smile.
The old Jew leaned back, studying me. For the first time, boredom vanished from his gaze, replaced by mild interest.
"Is that so? I rarely take cases personally…"
"How much?" I interrupted bluntly.
"Ten thousand a month for my time, excluding expenses," he said, unfazed.
Good heavens! That's a weak Lineage's monthly income!
"I agree!" I replied swiftly.
His interest deepened.
"Very well. I need three days to prepare. You must provide the first month's advance in that time."
"How long will it take?" I tried to estimate costs. I had no idea where to find even the initial payment. I had about three thousand on hand. The easiest solution—send Shnyrka on a "heist"—was lackluster. First, it wouldn't yield enough; second, it's shameful, Lord Galaktionov! Especially with plenty of Rifts nearby—loot won't collect itself!
"I'll know after thorough review, but likely at least three months. I understand correctly that you aim not only to reclaim your Lineage estate but also…" he glanced at the unseen screen, "effectively restore your Lineage and become its head, with the right to wear its ring?"
"Correct," I nodded.
"Then we'll meet in three days! Margarita Abramovna will schedule your appointment to avoid wasted time."
"Thank you, Mr. Goldsmith," I rose and left. I urgently needed to earn money. A lot of it!
Leaving the firm, I decided to walk. I knew my earning options, but sometimes you need to clear your head.
I strolled lazily, eyeing shop windows and passersby. Many cast curious or studying glances.
A healthy young man in a tracksuit sauntered, eating ice cream bought from a vendor. I got three assorted scoops; Shnyrka only liked plain cream, no additives, and adored it. Whenever possible, I indulged my pet.
In a dark archway, I summoned him and handed over his cone, which he grabbed with trembling paws and dragged into the shadows. I continued on.
I should invite Andryukha for a housewarming. Bring girls, or would that embarrass him? Maybe lure Helga. Doubt anything would happen soon, but she intrigues me. Thoughts of the "ice queen" kept returning, unusual for me.
Lost in thought, I turned somewhere random. Tossing the empty cone stick—I always do—I looked around. Where am I?
Ahead was a school, students in uniforms exiting, and a park beyond. Hmm… I scratched my head, checked a nearby house's address plate, and called a taxi.
Leaning against a large tree, I squinted at the sun, pondering what else to eat.
A Hunter without intuition is a dead Hunter. Grandmaster Wulf always said this, springing surprises on us young Hunters to hone this sense. He believed it could be strengthened. We cursed him, nursing bruises, burns, and frostbite, but didn't argue. Hard to dispute a Grandmaster!
Whether Wulf trained my intuition or I was born with it, it existed and saved me often.
Now, admiring local architecture, I caught something odd peripherally. A black minivan sped too fast, too erratically.
As it neared, its side door began opening, with no sign of slowing. Escape was impossible, except…
Two girls, about twelve, walked beside me, clearly in the blast zone. My trained body reacted before my mind.
I scooped both girls up, channeled strength, clutched them to my chest, and crashed backward through the armored glass of a nearby dishware shop, tumbling inside amid shattering glass and ceramics. I shielded the girls beneath me.
A massive explosion rocked the street, the shockwave blasting out the remaining storefront, debris pelting my back.
"Track it!" I ordered, summoning Shnyrka, his face smeared with ice cream.
Screams erupted outside. I stood carefully, lifting the girls by their collars.
"You okay?" I asked, noting their saucer-sized eyes.
"Y-yes!" one nodded, and both burst into tears, clinging to my waist. Damn! And I'm the one telling Androsov caring for others is irrational.
"There, there, calm down!" I patted their heads awkwardly. I had no kids in my past life… or none I knew of. Hunters were forbidden families, and I never stayed put. Kids always seemed noisy to me.
Peering out, I saw the tree I'd leaned against split and ablaze. Quite a blast!
Assured the girls were unharmed, I pried them off and handed them to their inept bodyguards, who appeared late. Their fathers should fire—or shoot—them. I shouldn't have had to save those girls. Useless idiots…
I slipped away before police arrived. No bystander dared stop a Slayer, but I suspect I was noticed. So be it!
Hopping into the arriving taxi, I headed home, where I discarded torn, singed clothes and showered, reflecting.
Evening approached, presenting a choice: party and drink, or punish the culprits. Naturally, I chose the latter.
A grumpy Shnyrka returned as I exited the shower.
"N-n-nooo ice c-c-cream!" he reproached.
"I'll buy more!" I nodded, stroking his sleek fur. Through his eyes, I tracked the minivan to an industrial district, where it vanished behind a high fence into a hangar. Nighttime strolls are invigorating.
Let's see. Two tracksuits left. Time to get armor. Spiritual armor's great, but with physical armor, it's better.
The taxi dropped me a block from my target and sped off. The area was rough—half the streetlights were out, surrounded by warehouses and hangars, no people in sight.
Two guards in a gatehouse, a fleet of vehicles in hangars, and eight men inside. Drinking, of course—what else do villains do?
Shnyrka's not just a scout but a perfect saboteur! When he chewed through the guardhouse wiring, monitors and lights died. I vaulted the wall, knocking out the first guard checking the fuse box, then the second. Hope I didn't kill them—pointless deaths aren't my style.
Inspecting their pistols, I deemed them useless but kept a flashlight.
Sprinting across the yard, I infiltrated the hangar and approached a "break room," standard in warehouses for changing, washing, or, now, drinking. If the guards were ordinary, the one behind that magical explosion was at least Veteran-level. Noting their positions, I signaled Shnyrka.
Sparks flew from the panel as he bit through 220-volt wires, unbothered, though he sneezed, fur bristling like a hedgehog's.
I charged in. The first two died instantly, strength-infused strikes crushing their skulls. I dialed back most enhancement but snapped two more necks. None donned armor. Reducing strength further, I dispatched the remaining four. Only two tried anything, but their level barely reached Apprentice.
The ungifted ones I tossed into the restroom, checking for weapons, then barred the door with a table.
"Move, and you're dead!" I grabbed the two with weak Gifts and dragged them outside, where light remained.
"Who the hell are you, dude?" a bandit face gaped, sobering after my blows.
"That's my question! What the hell are *you*, dude?"
He blinked, confused. Time for motivation. Androsov's not the only one with tricks. I pressed a finger to his forehead, adding a touch of power. It'd feel like an electric shock…
"AHH! Man, what're you doing?!" he wailed.
"Man? Call me 'my lord'!" I smirked.
"Sorry… m-my lord."
"Better yet—Dark Overlord!" I leaned in.
"As you say, Dark Overlord…" he stammered, eyeing my finger nearing his forehead.
"Who are you, dog?" I asked sweetly.
"I'm… Musician… I mean, Sasha Blue," he corrected.
"Why Musician?" I asked, curious.
"Finished music school. Violin."
"See!" I raised a finger. "Could be playing in a philharmonic. Why try to kill me today?"
"Kill? You? Today?" he babbled, confused.
I sighed and zapped him, lowering the intensity.
"AHH! Mercy!"
"Today, by the dishware shop," I clarified.
"We… had a job… to take out Merkulova Jr.!" he said. "What's it got to do with you?"
"Who?!" I exclaimed.
"Sofia Merkulova, Baron Merkulov's daughter. We had a contract on her."
"A twelve-year-old girl?" It dawned on me.
"Eleven…" he specified, for some reason.
"So, you're hired killers?" I smirked.
"Well… yeah… It's not us, it's life…" he tried to justify.
"I hate this nonsense," I sighed. "Who ordered it, and why?"
He hesitated. I mused aloud.
"Curious fact: the head's nerve centers are weak, but the groin's far more sensitive. I don't enjoy this…" I yanked down his pants.
"Nooo!" he screamed.
"Answer!" I roared.
"Baron Samoilov. Some feud. He didn't want to duel Merkulov."
"He chickened out…" the second thug chimed in.
"Is that so?" I raised an eyebrow. Noble aristocrats, my foot! "Money, bonds, jewels?"
"Uh…" the first stalled. These idiots learn nothing. I jabbed his solar plexus, avoiding the groin—though I wasn't lying; it'd be effective!
"Agh…" he screamed and passed out.
"Damn!" I cursed, turning to the second.
"In the safe! All in the safe!" he yelled.
"And…" I began.
"Second floor, utility room, under the desk!" Smart guy.
"Last question! What caused that blast? You two could barely light a cigarette without matches…"
"Baron Samoilov gave us an artifact!"
"Where is it?"
"It was… single-use!"
As expected. The safe question was rhetorical—I have Shnyrka! I knocked out the second thug with a nerve strike.
"Time for well-earned moral compensation!" I smirked. "Shnyrka, search!"