IntroduCtIon

Everything written in my first book is a dream. It’s a book-parable. It’s silent, provoking, and unreal. Its main events are represented as seen by its characters. Contained in their minds, it is reflecting their fears, sufferings, life mess. At times we don’t see; don’t hear all that distinct horror that surrounds us. The horror yells. It yells so loudly it’s impossible not to hear. It strikes so much it’s impossible not to see. But in all the noise and brightness of our life we don’t see and don’t hear. The horror of human suffering and devastation has achieved the highest, inconceivable note. But we don’t hear it. I depend on silent lines which are strict, deprived of colours of real life and because of that – powerful. As I believe, there is nothing louder than silence. No sound – no matter how intense it is – can overcome the silence. Silence wins. Where there is silence, there is a centre of every thought. Where there is a thought, there is clarity. It is in this blessed abode the mind is awakening. And when it has awoken the actions start.

As it’s said by the Apostle, the hell starts here. We generate our horror. We let it into our lives, our souls. We suffer only from ourselves. It’s we who create most of the problems that surround us. Nobody and nothing else. It is our belief in the power of evil. The original error is that people believe in bad, in omens. We believe. Believe that something bad is going to happen either with us, or with our loved ones. Evil exists. Believing and knowing are different things. Ignorance is no excuse. I know what evil is. I know that there are demons. I know, but I do not allow my faith to increase their power. I don’t believe in good, I believe in God.

Initially, religious themes, interspersed throughout all the chapters in the narrative, may seem (and probably will seem) to people with the established stereotype of religious imperception, hostile to individual worldview. And, therefore, rejected. This is a problem for the vast majority of readers, a barrier that not every atheist will be able to overcome. So I worry that religious themes greatly narrow the range of readers. There's

a problem – the book is not perceived by Christians, for example, as it was written for everyone. And not appreciated by everyone, because it was written for Christians. I noticed this problem only while rereading the book and creating «conditional» ending of the story. Conditional, because not everything, that was planned initially, is written. And there is no ending per se. It’s an indivisial dream, a puzzle, a maze of the mind of the protagonist.

Frankly, not everything that was written is to my liking. The book does not claim to get the highest praise. During the four years of work I have changed. Following me the views and the style of writing have changed.

Each time seeing more of the shortcomings and sickened by the writing style I'm developing. It is a poor book, which has nothing to teach his Creator. My book teaches. It teaches tough, no matter if I like this approach or not. Because of this, I’m making progress. Once a person begins to think that the fruit of his labors is genius or good, he becomes a prisoner of this framework, he stops.

The book is published. Now I want to start with a clean slate, to start the continuation of the originating events of this story. I am open to criticism, and therefore, ready to improve, but still I’m the fiercest critic of myself. What I write it for, deviating from the topic? I'm waiting for your critics, my dear readers, because I want this book to be liked by you. If you would like to share you impressions about my work, don’t hesitate to write on my e-mail: kirillmichaylovich@mail.ru.

The plot of the book unravels the world, survived in wars and natural disasters, people surviving in the new world, in the world, generating fiends: the vampire men of the new regime. There is nothing worse than a person who has lost the face of morality, fallen into the abyss of permissiveness and sadism. The beast is less ugly in its wildness then such people.

Organization INFERNO – Inferno Numanistiska Federation Unified Response Nenastojaschaja of Ocnita – spetsnaz of «dead» is responsible for the settlement of infernal beings. Those «dead» have lost everything, all the ties connecting them with humanity. But they reflect humanity like no other people on the Earth. For life’s sake INFERNO – generated by the brunch severed from the fallen Vatican, joined a mighty heritage of antiquity, suppressing the potential power.

Numenistick: Numen is impersonal divine power, which is able to intervene in human life. This concept is attested in the 2nd century BC and in the age of the Empire is identified with the concept of «God». It is characteristic of Roman mythology, in which features of anthropomorphism are more pronounced than in the Greek one.

Goddess Nenia, in the early Roman folklore is a song of praise and mourning a dead person. It was sung with the sounds of flute at first by the family of the dead person, then by specially hired mourners at the tomb.

Oknus (from Greek Ocnus – slow) – in Greek mythology is a character of the Kingdom of the dead, the old man, making a straw rope, devoured from the other end by the donkey. The symbol of the infinite. He was imposed such a penalty because he did not want to die.

The enemy has many faces.

The evil is not so terrible as the mighty of this world.

Lodge of evolving Freemasonry «Cognition 5» has split the world,

leading to the Apocalypse.

And in the middle of the chessboard of global scale there is an ordinary

man Arthur King. He's just a man. The human being with limited power. The man who infuriates his inherent limitation. The man who fights against all the odds.

Having come into the world with a triple valvular defect, I’ve been living for years on the brink of life and death. My sands were running out. Doctors predicted my early death. They talked about the months, weeks, saying that I should be meek and mild, because death was about to take me. And I just refused to die. I turned to him whose power is beyond any limits… to God. And my life changed. God heard me. He gave me a new life.

I am grateful to my mother, whose tears and prayers were the force that defeated death inevitably approaching me. And from that moment I became different. My faith changed, I overcame temptations and disappointments. Even after a miracle performed for me I doubted the truth. But due to all those thorns I acquired something more valuable than belief – the ability to overcome. One of my characters says about the limit: «through my lifetime I’ve been put a limit. All my way, everything pushes me to the limit, but there is no limit. There is infinity. There is death. There is zero. There is no limit».

I and nobody but me is the embodiment and essence, which puts limits, but every limit is just illusion. The limit is specific. The basis of the limit is only theory, theoretical derivation based on the behavior of individuals encountered in a situation that puts the scope.

All our life though diverse and unusual, is trivial, and is in all its manifestations unambiguous. All our life is the road. It's the line from point A to point B. Life is a challenge, a puzzle, an incredible maze of human thought.

Every action has one task – to get from point A to point B. For others we are alive while we go this way, while we are at this movement from point A to point B. When the road ends, we cease to exist for those who have not arrived at the point of destination. What is beyond the destination point of this route?

Haven’t you understood yet?

But I'm afraid Preface is dragged out. Let’s go!

Chapter 1

the hIghlIghts of the Past

Near Tandrod. The year 475 after the Great Separation. The Second Age.

Time seemed frozen in a lonely desert, dimly lit with cloudy sun, hiding behind mournful clouds. Under a thick layer of the Lord snow in the dead vegetation there was life. Unconsciously, in oppression, under the white darkness, the life was seeking out to light, which possibly did not exist at all. But without ceasing to strive for, not tolerating frustration, and overcoming insurmountable and through the insignificance of breaking to the cherished light, so much desired and emerged into consciousness from the outside, the life was relying on the senses in the desire to break out of the thick snow and to behold the sun. The sun wilted, but warming a beautiful flowering snowdrop. This snowdrop, as a miracle, with its tender shadows of light colours and smiling life seen in a slightly bended bud, will emphasise the region bounded with rocky guards and haggard spruces-guards, a few dignified, but mostly shrunken, living among anarchically thrown clumps of grey stones. It was near the village. Poor and impoverished it seemed a cemetery opposite the rocks. It had some spirit reminding about former life, sunk into oblivion.

The silence enveloping the steppe soaked the air itself. As a sinister dissembler it was hiding the world, devoured and oppressed by the poison of death behind phony external unwavering, chilling calm. The eternity, as an outcast mother, was bewailing adopted world. The abandoned world was destroying the ways to salvation. The world was dying in tergiversation. The world grown dark and contrived its power has lost the Light as it was clothed in flesh and so it was dead.

The past has disappeared in frozen hearts as a green-leaved life under the thickness of snow. The world was neither dead no alive. It was languishing surrounded by a wall of fear. It was unfit to confrontation,

amazed with disbelief and obsessed with absurdity. It didn’t understood good or ill omens as it was sick and had lost its true image. That’s why even evil, staggered, torn apart. The link in the image of a belligerent man without joining any wrong part goes and does what is not abhorrent to his honour and duty.

Far away, from the lowlands of Tandor, surging skyward a man of huge height and stately figure was coming. He was dressed in red with black edging coat fluttering in the wind. The coat was tightly buttoned on his body with dozens of silver clinchers. He steadily rose opposing blizzards, hitting him in the face. He moved step by step in heavy boots with silver accents slowly but surely climbing the slope forbidding peaks. His gaze was directed upward through the pitch black glasses. His long hair, once tied with a ribbon, which a few hours ago was kidnapped and taken to infinity by the wind, was heavy with endless snowflakes and desperately evolved into a raging stream of air.

Having put his right foot on the protruding grey stone he stopped, slowly examined the world seeming tiny and insignificant from this height, sighed, losing the peace, which resulted in appearing on the face wrinkles. Removing his glasses and closing his eyes, he tipped his head slightly and uttered in a soft, strong, charming and bass slightly husky voice, «the World knew him and no one knew about him; and his name was Scott Renter»… So, father, the first lines of your diary run… So… so… You know, father, from a man I was reborn into a beast. It's hard, and the burden remains with me. And I am suffering, father, but as this suffering and pain touched me…, so that is my path and I must accept it and avoid becoming what people intended me to become. It hurts me, father…, excruciatingly hurts to realize that being clothed in the Good, I do not change the essence, I… I remain Evil… and the beast.

Tortured with untold travail of soul, reflected on the stern handsome face, he tried to overcome the bitterness, to hold back the tears spilled from under closed eyelids and ran down the cheeks. These tears hurt, every drop burned the whole being, they drained the rebellious essence, tormented by the burden of centuries.

10

Taking the burden of the century, he was alien to the human shape, but he defeated destiny being reborn in the wanderer. He sighed, his eyelids rose, showing the beast's eyes with sharpened like a wild cat’s bronze with golden pupils. And again they were hidden behind dark glasses. Peering into acute heads of cliffs Scott Renter continued on.

A thick fog thickening in the sky covered the mountain ranges of Tandora and numerous cliffs with collapsed boulders. The soles of the shoes, dipping in iridescent silver flooring, etched, leaving deep footprints.

The rays of the sun peeped out through the gray clouds and it was light. It beamed for a moment boldly highlighting impregnable stone wall, blocking Scott’s way, and fleeting disappeared. Scott stopped ten steps from the huge shard of rock. He gradually examined the rock from bottom to top, verifying the distance and put his mighty hand on black as the darkness handle of purple-red katana, rushed forward. He jumped up, in a couple of steps rebounding from the boulders. Moving in the fog with lightning speed, closing his eyes from increased biting wind, suffering excruciating pain in frozen fingers, he clambered overcoming the nullity of his frail body. With an effort of will he prevailed against the weakness, because he knew that the flesh would yield to the spirit, destroying conceivable obstacles, and they will become one. His hands grabbed the edge of the top.

The sky cleared and the sun, not hidden under clouds or the column of rocks, filled Tandrod with saturated cold light and scattered the shadow of the illusoriness and darkness. Rays of light descended to sensory petals of the snowdrop inclined to shyness in front of the huge world. It wanted to blossom and reveal the beauty that was alien to this world, the sweet charm that charms not a soul, subordinate to dead spiritless minds.

Lazy stream of Time flew in an unknown direction without looking back or stopping. Silently, relentlessly, it obediently fulfills its destiny to lead everything alive to the end.

And snowdrop stood bent, surrounded by the whiteness of tombs and disjoined contrast of the village erected long ago for the delight, but then buried in suffering, destroyed by human will and unbridled inexorability of the Governers of the Dark Side.

The flower felt somebody’s presence. The different presence was incomparable to anything else. The presence that inspires the idea of sympathy and admiration for the snowdrop. The feeling was so strange and so obvious that it turned around and saw an incredibly high and a huge man who was on one knee, gazing fixed at it.

It was a long gaze, but a mysterious stranger turned his head and rushed to imperceptible snow ball. It was a girl, just a kid. She seemed to be about six years old, looked pale and small. Scott lifted a young creature from the ground with his immense hands. The girl suddenly came to her senses and stared at the enemy or saviour with the pure blue eyes of hers.

Barely looking at him, hardly audible, almost in a whisper she abruptly said:

– Who are you?

– Don’t be afraid, everything is well, – he said as gently as possible. – Where is your home?

The face of the child changed, disfigured with horror, as if she recalled the image of a terrible dream. Small snow-white hands grasped the hem of the cloak on his chest, and weakened, driven by the fear of a confused voice declared:

Please, save yourself! They will come again! I am the only one left. They will come back! And after a pause, she exclaimed: Brother!

After that she burst into tears, nestling up to Renter like a drowning man catches at straws.

Scott Renter felt embarrassed, weasel was alien and forgotten because he hadn’t seen it for many years. The cry of a child echoes dissipated in the bottomless void in his soul, scorched with suffering.

«Darkness how long will you thicken in the world!» he thought in a fit of temper. And looking at the old, destroyed village, he said loudly:

– Child, don't worry, I'll never leave you. From now on I'll always be with you! Nothing will dare to darken your face.

And to the surprise of the girl tears started to fall from his eyes. The child stopped crying, stretched her hands to his face, as she knew now, the face of her Savior, not of the blighter. She took off his glasses, but was not frightened with animal sight, radiating goodness and reflecting

the suffering. Though she withdrew her hand, then she held a hand to his cheek. It got warm in his torn soul. Weeping ended; Scott looked into the clear eyes of the girl and with a smile asked:

– What's your name, heavenly creature?

– Iona – she answered briefly, sounding like a bell.

– You're quite cold. Iona, where's your home?

– It’s near…

The former settlement was enclosed with the low wooden fence, mostly

fallen. Wooden huts were standing along the dusty trail.

The village was dead. Scott Renter watched utter wretchedness, felt the

stinking spirit of desecration, which only he could recognize. They stepped onto the narrow road.

Here it is! – Iona pointed to a simple log cabin standing out against a background of half-destroyed buildings.

– It’s beautiful, – said Scott unexpectedly for him.