The road turned out to be real, and it went on and on, slicing through the landscape. In this artificial world, that was a good sign. I walked, letting my legs do their job and my eyes enjoy the world. Except my eyes didn't really take the opportunity, hindered by my meager resources, a foggy future, and the anticipation of Valtar’s next lines in my head.

  But don't get me wrong; the scenery was picturesque. To my left, green hills rolled to the very horizon, the wind combing through the high grass, and sharp cliffs resembled the teeth of a sleeping giant who could have made every dentist in my world a millionaire. To my right stretched the dark wall of the forest, which looked almost peaceful in the daylight. Almost.

  "Valtar, how am I going to understand the locals and communicate with them?" I asked. "Is there a pan-galactic language, or do I need to master pantomime immediately?"

  "Relax," he replied. "A semantic, contextual, and culture-adapted localization package is already integrated directly into your synapses. Speak freely. Actually, no. Better try to keep your mouth shut if possible."

  "So..." I frowned, naturally. "A translator is built into my brain?"

  "Catching on fast."

  "Without my knowledge or explicit consent?"

  "A lot of things here work without the user's consent," he noted philosophically. "Get used to it. It’s called 'optimization of user experience.'"

  I decided to distract myself with the map and saw that I was officially in the "Valorian House Domain." The name sounded like a place where they hang you for vagrancy and tax you for air with equal pleasure. The suggestion to keep my mouth shut was becoming more attractive by the second.

  After a couple of kilometers, the road led me to something resembling civilized life. It turned out to be dirty, crooked, and noisy. Right in the middle of the highway sat a circus, though I was using knowledge from the future to label it—at the time, I thought they were nomadic refugees (yes, nomads who had lost their non-existent home). But it was a traveling circus. Not bright and cheerful, but the kind that surfaces in the nightmares of people with bad childhoods. Frayed tents, faded flags, wagons with peeling paint. "The Magical Sideshow of Impresario Rampo," read the uneven lettering on a lopsided sign. The Impresario himself didn't keep me waiting.

  He emerged in the inimitable manner of a jack-in-the-box. He had a week’s worth of stubble and a massive earring in his ear (copper, but polished with effort). A dirty vest was worn over a clearly expensive silk shirt that had seen better days (and better owners). On his head was a battered top hat, inside which someone might have built a nest. Rampo’s teeth were gold. All of them. And of varying carats and shades, which could be considered an achievement of sorts. Likely, the crowns had been collected from different previous owners. I was reservedly waiting for him to start selling me snake oil, but he said something else entirely.

  "Sir!" he exclaimed, spreading his arms as if he were about to hug me—and check my pockets at the same time. "Can my eyes truly be seeing a true connoisseur of the beautiful in this god-forsaken wilderness?"

  "Hello, sir," I sighed, realizing that escaping now would be impolite. And possibly result in a knife in the back.

  I cautiously poked the master of the sideshow with [Analyze].

  "Impresario Rampo. Something human still remains within him," the system informed me.

  His name is Impresario? It seems his parents really wanted a showman in the family. Or it was a pseudonym adopted with such fervor that it became part of his identity.

  "Oh, you simply must allow me to show you my humble best-in-the-world sideshow!" Without waiting for an answer, Rampo grabbed me by the elbow (as firm as a claw) and dragged me into the heart of the camp. "And no, I will not take no for an answer! To shatter the pillars of hospitality? Never! I cannot commit such a crime, even under torture!"

  Stolen novel; please report.

  "How quickly you’ve found a new friend," Valtar threw at my back sarcastically (although he was in my head, he succeeded). "And your Charisma isn't even your strongest suit. Apparently, they value a different type of charm here—desperate poverty and a rusty sword at your belt."

  The camp was a collection of battered wagons and cages with boars harnessed to them. Huge boars, with massive tusks I couldn't have reached even standing on my tiptoes. Their fatty flanks were attached to their bodies by something like thick, wiry stems. In some, the meaty parts were entirely absent, replaced by crates of luggage. It turned out they were a self-replenishing larder on hooves. Convenient—the people stay fed, and the piggies remain (relatively) whole. [Analyze] spat out their names: "Mushroom-eater," "Princess," "Keg," "Dark Lord Boar," and also subtley hinted at their porcine origin.

  It smelled exactly how you think it should smell here, and then some, so let's leave it at that. Worse than the smell were the bells. They hung in clusters from every wagon and cage, jangling in the wind. Not melodically, but chaotically and persistently, making me want to grit my teeth just to drown out the cacophony.

  "Warding off the sky parasites, my friend!" Rampo informed me confidentially, noticing my hateful glare. "Those little bastards suck the luck right out through the top of your head! And the ringing confuses their evil little thoughts! A thankless job, but someone’s got to do it!"

  "There are no such things," Valtar put in drily.

  The circus folk scurrying near the cages looked a lot like their master: thin, dirty, with sharp gazes that held something wolfish. Believe me, I had recent experience for comparison. Sir Rampo hurried to introduce me to them properly:

  "Look here, sir! The Bearded Woman! Where else would you see such a wonder?"

  She did indeed wear a thick beard, and, if trust her greasy dress, she was a woman, but her height and powerful arms betrayed her as a dwarf.

  "And here, the Shapeshifter Dog! See that almost-human face? Creepy, isn't it?"

  The dog, looking like an Irish Terrier, indeed looked at me with eyes that were intelligent and, consequently, sad. But from my point of view, their draft animals were far stranger than the dog. I was beginning to feel like a complete provincial; perhaps rightly so—Earth clearly wasn't the center of galactic trends.

  Next came the "world's greatest strongman" (who had to be taken at his word, as his muscles were hidden under baggy clothes), the "world's greatest sword swallower" (her throat was bandaged), and the "world's funniest clown" (whose gaze made me instinctively reach for the hilt of Chameleon’s Tail). The climax was the "world's greatest fakir," dark-skinned and in a torn turban, struggling with a puff of grey smoke to strike pathetic sparks from his fingers. They looked paler than the sparks from the ring Valtar had given me for a laugh.

  All of this was clearly intended for people with rich imaginations and poor wallets. But one cage stood out from the rest. It was huge, plated with heavy iron and layers of thick felt. Not a sound came from inside.

  "Oh, that’s for the connoisseurs!" Rampo winked, catching my gaze. "In there... a pile of naked High Elf girls. Just lying in a heap. But, my friend, I’d have to kill you if you so much as caught a glimpse of them without a ticket! Ha-ha! Just a joke!"

  I didn't laugh. I noticed that the wheels under this cage were pressed much deeper into the stone surface of the road than the other wagons. There was something incredibly heavy in there. If those were elf girls, they’d been stuffed in there without mercy.

  "Did you make camp just for me?" I asked, looking around at this parade of gloom. Though, given the level of "entertainment," I wouldn't have been surprised if they were actually waiting for their only spectator.

  "The hogs need to rest," Rampo said matter-of-factly. "And those good merchants who overtook us twenty minutes ago... they need to lighten their load too."

  "What do you mean?"

  "There's a bandit ambush around the bend, sir," Rampo said, baring his mismatched gold. "A Hillwood classic. A local landmark, you might say. The merchants are being neatly fleeced right now; their throats will be slit for good measure, and everything valuable taken. And once the robbers go off to celebrate, we’ll move along peacefully and without any trouble on a clear road. I’ve always considered traders our natural competitors in extracting funds from the common folk, but—I won't lie—they are natural allies when it comes to clearing the way."

  I looked ahead to where the road curved and vanished behind a hill. Then I mentally checked my ME bar: 44/70. Enough for a few tricks.

  "You’re not going to...?" Valtar began, but he already saw the answer.

  I turned around and, without saying another word to the showmen, took off down the road, quickly shifting from a walk to a run.

  "Quite right, sir! No need for these tearful goodbyes!" Impresario Rampo shouted after me. His voice carried through the receding jingle of the bells. At least that was a pleasant change.

  "Idiot," the system commented affectionately. "The 'Holy Simplicity' achievement is practically on your profile already. All that’s left is to confirm the lethal outcome."

  That’s the kind of person I am. I think I started with that, didn't I? It seems some lessons are given not to be learned, but for endless mockery.