The sun went down, staining the sky the color of a bruise. Greg yawned. Adventures were fine, but sleep was sacred.

  He tried to lie down on a wide bench outside some random house. The moment he closed his eyes, a rotten tomato smacked into him.

  “Get lost, vagrant!” an old woman shrieked from the window. “Don’t you dare sprawl out here!”

  Greg sighed, wiping tomato off his cloak. “These people have a weird definition of hospitality,” he muttered. “Fine. I’ll find somewhere else.”

  He wandered down the street until he spotted a sign. A bed and a mug were painted on it. Under that: “The Drunken Boar.” Inside—noise, laughter, clinking dishes.

  “Oh,” Greg rubbed his chin. “Loud. Means it’s fun. And where it’s fun, people sleep. Probably.”

  He pushed the heavy oak door open. A thick smell hit him—booze breath, fried onions, sweat. It wasn’t just noisy in there. It was a roar. People drank, shouted songs, someone danced on a table.

  Greg squeezed up to the bar. Behind it stood a bald bartender with a face like he personally bit the throat out of the boar on the sign.

  “Listen,” Greg tapped the counter. “I need a place to sleep for one night. I heard you can do that here.”

  The bartender sized him up: dirty cloak, weird hair, black eyes.

  “Six bronze,” he grunted. “Cheapest room. Attic. Bedbugs included.”

  “Uh…” Greg hesitated. “Bronze? Like round pieces of metal?”

  The bartender frowned. “Money, kid. Yes. If you don’t have it—get out.”

  “Why’s everyone so angry today…” Greg sighed. “Sorry—how do you earn these… money things?”

  The bartender looked at him like he was insane, then suddenly smirked.

  “What a weird kid. So you want to earn?”

  He leaned over the bar and jabbed a finger toward a dark corner of the hall.

  “See those five guys with axes? Mercs. They’ve been eating and drinking here for three hours. Ordered a ton of shit. And my liver senses tell me they’re not paying. They’ll vanish in the morning and good luck catching them.”

  He narrowed his eyes.

  “If you squeeze the debt out of them—we split. Seventy to me, thirty to you. Deal?”

  “How much do they owe?” Greg asked.

  “One hundred fifty bronze.”

  Greg rolled his eyes for a second. Invisible gears clicked in his head.

  “One-fifty at thirty percent… that’s forty-five bronze. Enough for a week.”

  The bartender’s mouth fell open. “Damn. You look like a shepherd a cow chewed on, but you can do math. Alright. Go. Let’s see how you fly.”

  Greg shrugged and walked to the corner table.

  Five huge men sat with their boots on the benches. The table was piled with empty mugs and bones.

  “Excuse me, guys,” Greg said as he approached.

  No reaction. They kept laughing at some joke.

  “Excuse me, guys,” Greg repeated louder.

  They acted like he was nothing. Air.

  Greg got bored. He reached out and shoved the nearest brute in the shoulder—light, but noticeable.

  Instant result.

  All five jumped up, chairs scraping. Laughter died. They stared down at him like wolves staring at a limping fawn.

  “What are you, immortal?” one growled—scar across his whole face.

  Greg looked him in the eyes. “Guys,” he whispered.

  His voice was quiet, and that made it worse. The mercs’ arm hair stood up. There was something ancient and hungry in that whisper.

  “Pay. The money.”

  They glanced at each other. Fear flashed, but pride held.

  “Listen, kid,” the leader hissed. “Let’s step outside. Talk in fresh air.”

  “Sure,” Greg agreed. “It’s stuffy in here.”

  They walked out back. The moment the door shut, the mercs drew swords and axes.

  “So who the hell are you, kid?” the leader spat. “Mage? Or just stupid?”

  One of them—the twitchiest—charged Greg with a club.

  “TAKE THIS!”

  Greg didn’t even lift a hand.

  Whsh.

  A gust of wind scooped the attacker up like a dry leaf and slammed him into a pile of manure three meters away.

  The mercs froze.

  “Listen, kid…” the leader’s voice changed. Respect crept into it. “You’re strong. Join our crew? We’ll pay… well. A lot. We need a battle mage.”

  Stolen story; please report.

  Greg yawned lazily behind his palm. “Seriously? Join you? Your crew?”

  He looked them over like trash.

  “You’re weak. What am I supposed to earn with you? A hernia from dragging your corpses?”

  Their faces twisted with rage.

  “You little bastard!” the leader roared. “Weak, huh?! ATTACK!”

  They rushed him together. Fear was there, but rage pushed them forward.

  Greg sighed. “So loud.”

  Darkness thickened around him. The aura got so dense the mercs struggled to breathe. Greg raised a hand and snapped his fingers.

  CRACK.

  A dry, nasty sound.

  All four runners’ legs buckled at the same time.

  “AAAAA!” they screamed, collapsing into the mud.

  Their big toes had twisted at an unnatural angle.

  “Not critical,” Greg commented, watching the grown men writhe. “It’ll grow back. Or not. I’m not a doctor.”

  A window opened somewhere.

  “Hey! What the hell are you yelling about?!”

  Greg grimaced. “Too loud.”

  Pop.

  The yard emptied.

  Forest. Darkness. Moon and owls.

  Five mercs lay on moss, moaning. They stared at Greg in horror as he sat down on a stump.

  “You… you gonna kill us?” the leader sobbed. “Are you a demon?”

  “No,” Greg said calmly. “I’m just playing.”

  He lifted a hand again. The mercs curled up, covering their heads.

  “Please!” they shrieked. “We’ll give you everything! We beg you!”

  “Boring,” Greg said. Snap.

  CRACK.

  Now each of them had a pinky on their left hand broken.

  The scream of five huge men probably woke that bear on the far end of the forest.

  “HAHAHA!” Greg suddenly laughed. “Why are you screaming? You were so tough! You were ready to kill me without thinking! What happened to you now?”

  “Mercy!” the “tough guys” sobbed.

  “Alright,” Greg stopped laughing. He was bored. “Sleep. I’m tired of listening to your snot.”

  Snap.

  All five went limp and started snoring, knocked out cold.

  Greg walked over. “Okay. Time to harvest.”

  He rummaged through their pockets like it was business.

  “This one… a hundred bronze. Not bad. This one ninety… ooh, what’s this?”

  He pulled ten white coins out of the leader’s hidden pocket.

  “Silver? Shiny. Probably expensive. Works for me. And the last one—thirty bronze.”

  “Alright. Money acquired,” Greg nodded, dropping the loot into his pouch.

  He looked at the sleeping, broken men. Something stirred inside.

  A conscience. Or whatever was left of it.

  “Fine,” he sighed. “I’m not a sadist.”

  He held his hands over them. A greenish glow wrapped their legs and arms. Bones cracked back into place. Bruises vanished.

  “I’ll heal you. But now you’ll know how to talk to strangers. You can find your way out of the forest. Fresh air is good for your health.”

  “Unless a bear eats you.”

  Greg snorted, imagining the bear’s face.

  Pop.

  Back at the bar, the bartender was wiping a glass when the air in front of the counter shimmered and Greg appeared. He looked bored.

  “Here,” Greg dumped a handful of coins onto the counter. “One hundred five. Your share.”

  The bartender’s eyes bulged. He counted with shaking hands.

  “You… you killed them?”

  “No,” Greg yawned. “They decided to go on a hike. Into the forest. At night. Romance and all that.”

  He counted six coins from his own pile and slid them over.

  “And I want a room. One night. I’m dying for sleep.”

  The bartender swallowed hard at the sight of Greg’s black eyes and quickly grabbed a key.

  “Y-yes. Of course. Here’s your room. Best one. Fresh sheets. Free—uh, I mean—for six coins. Please.”

  Greg took the key. “Thanks. And… can I get breakfast in bed? I like meat.”

  He went upstairs thinking about only one thing: a soft pillow. The day had been too long for someone who’d been herding sheep that morning.

  Morning began with a squeal. A nasty, thin sound inside his skull.

  “Eeeee—”

  Greg sat up in bed and shook his head. The squeal vanished, replaced by savage hunger. He shuffled to the washbasin, splashed water on his face, and looked in the mirror.

  “Well,” Greg concluded.

  The transformation was done.

  Not a single white hair remained. Now his head was pure raven-black. Both eyes were fully black too—no whites, no pupils. Two bottomless holes.

  Greg touched his cheek. “I look like a demon with a hangover. How is any girl supposed to like this?”

  He sighed. “Sad. Whatever. I’ll go eat. Love comes and goes, but hunger is forever.”

  He went downstairs. The main hall was mostly empty—just a couple guests finishing porridge. Greg dropped into the nearest chair and took the menu (a wooden board with burned-in names).

  “Alright…” he rummaged in his pouch. “I’ve got… money. Probably.”

  The bald bartender from last night came over, still looking sleepy. Greg pulled out one of the silver coins he’d taken from the mercs.

  “Hey,” Greg asked, rolling the coin between his fingers. “Do you happen to know what this thing is?”

  The bartender stared at him long and hard. The look said: Are you actually stupid or just messing with me?

  “KID,” he sighed. “That’s silver. One silver is twenty bronze.”

  “Oh!” Greg’s black pits widened. “No way. So I’m rich.”

  He looked back at the menu.

  “Then I want… this. And this. And this. I don’t know what ‘offal stew’ is, but it sounds interesting. And a sheep’s head. And potatoes. A whole plate.”

  The bartender raised an eyebrow. “Anything to drink?”

  “Drink?” Greg blinked. “Besides water?”

  “Uh… beer. Wine. Ale.”

  “And it tastes good?”

  The bartender shrugged. “People mostly order that. It’s a bar. That’s what they do.”

  “Yeah?” Greg thought. “Alright. Bring it.”

  The bartender eyed Greg’s skinny frame. “You sure you’ll eat all that? It’s morning. That’s enough food for three grown men.”

  “Just bring it,” Greg waved him off. “Don’t worry. It’ll fit.”

  The bartender walked away shaking his head.

  Ten minutes later, the table started filling: a mountain of fried potatoes. A baked sheep’s head with sad eyes. A huge bowl of thick soup.

  The smell was unreal.

  Greg started eating. He wasn’t eating—he was deleting food. The spoon moved so fast it nearly vanished.

  An hour passed. The bartender came to collect plates and froze.

  “More?” Greg asked, using bread to wipe sauce from the bottom of the bowl. “I’m just getting warmed up.”

  The bartender’s eyes went round. He grabbed the dishes and hurried to the kitchen.

  “Fry everything we’ve got,” he whispered to the cook. “Table five has a bottomless hole sitting there.”

  They brought more soup. Then roast. Then beer and a jug of wine.

  Greg sniffed the beer. “Smells like fermented bread.” He took a sip, grimaced. “Bitter.”

  Then the wine. “Sour.”

  He stared at the cup. “Seriously? People drink this mini-poison for fun?”

  But he drank it anyway. Experiment.

  Ten minutes later the world swam a little. His head felt light. Thoughts went foggy and веселые.

  “Oh,” Greg stared at his hands like they were funny. “I feel it. The effect’s kinda amusing. Head’s getting cloudy.”

  Then he got tired of being drunk. It got in the way of chewing. Greg snapped his fingers.

  Pop.

  A greenish flash inside his body. Poison neutralized. Liver restored. His head cleared instantly.

  “Better,” sober Greg said and reached for the next chicken leg.

  He ate and drank, drank and ate. Outside, it grew dark. The bar filled again—noise, music, shouting.

  Greg came out of his food trance only when he realized there was nothing left to chew.

  “Enough,” he patted his stomach. His stomach was flat—same as in the morning. Where it all went was a магическая mystery.

  The bartender approached, looking exhausted but pleased.

  “Uh… kid. Who’s paying?”

  “Oh, right,” Greg dug for his pouch. “How much do I owe?”

  The bartender pulled out a long scroll.

  “Three hundred bronze.”

  Greg almost fell off the chair.

  “What?!” he barked. “Three hundred?! When did I spend that much? I just had a snack!”

  The bartender glared and jabbed at the list with his finger.

  “Three sheep heads. Five stews. Two geese. A barrel of ale. A jug of our best wine… You ate a week’s kitchen supply, kid!”

  Greg opened his mouth to argue, then remembered the mountain of bones under the table.

  “Yeah…” he said slowly. “Fair point.”

  With a miserable face he dumped almost all his silver coins onto the table and added a handful of bronze. His heart tightened.

  (Not from magic—just greed.)

  “Fine,” he muttered. “Take it.”

  The bartender scooped up the money.

  Greg checked his pouch. The leftovers clinked sadly.

  “Great. Twenty bronze left. Yesterday I was rich, today I’m broke.”

  He sighed. “Next time I need to be less wasteful… I mean—more economical.”

  He looked at the bartender. “Still enough for a room?”

  “Six coins,” the bartender nodded, already softened by the profit.

  “Deal,” Greg said. “I’m going to sleep. Eating is hard work.”