Lone Cultivator In Another World

"Why don't we start right now?" he offered.

"I think we need to wait a little, your mom is still tired."

"Nonsense. After Misha did his thing, I feel so energized!" Nadezhda exclaimed.

Not taking no for an answer, Michael guided his parents in the breathing patterns of the first technique he had used after meeting Glory.

As expected, cultivation came easier for Nadezhda, who had already had a breakthrough with her Mental Power. Compared to her, Vladimir struggled.

Cultivation was like second nature to Michael. The necessary methods were uploaded directly into his brain, so he always followed the path that led to the most stable foundation. It wasn't the same for anybody in the world.

They didn't have Splendid Glory watching over them.

Ten minutes later, Michael felt a jolt of energy surround his mother. It centered around her head and fired splashes of sparks into the air.

Once again, that would never happen with Michael. He didn't waste a speck of energy because his cultivation results were perfect. His mother's advancement into 1-stage, 1-star wasn't ideal, but with some work it would be more than acceptable.

"Congratulations, mom! Dad, how's it going?"

Vladimir shrugged his shoulders. "I don't see the imaginary water you're talking about. Honestly, I don't know why it would appear. How is breathing supposed to make me hallucinate?"

"I'll show you later, dear," Nadezhda comforted him. "We need to let Misha go; he has things to take care of. The principal must be waiting for him."

"All right. Thank you, son. You did good today," Vladimir said, in English this time. The family talk helped him realize that his son was still the boy he remembered. It wasn't a choice between Michael and Misha – it was the best of both worlds.

"Dad." The teenager nodded.

"Oh, my! My two boys are safe and sound, and I've got this nice bed to lie on. Living the dream!" Nadezhda joked. Her teasing broke the serious atmosphere, making father and son chuckle.

"I'll go tell the doctors you're fine, mom. Bye, guys." Michael opened the car doors and jumped down. After he closed them again to give his parents some privacy, he rested his head on the white metallic surface.

"My boys." Nadezhda rubbed Vladimir's arm. Since he entered the van, the couple only broke contact when they practiced the breathing technique. He leaned in to kiss her again, deeper now that their son wasn't watching.

When the intimate moment ended, she caught her husband's face with her hands and kept him close. "Tell me… Tell me it will be fine. I'll believe you. Just…"

"Don't worry. Let's believe in our son. And I'll work hard to become stronger, I promise. I know I failed this time, but it won't happen again."

Outside the car, the commotion was slowing down. The captured Russian agents were sent off someplace where only Graves and his people could reach them. When Graves was done with the clean-up, he found Michael standing at the ambulance car doors. The old spy blinked a few times and decided not to distract the teenager.

'I knew it. Mom agreed to give me space too easily, but really, she's afraid. And dad, it wasn't you who failed. It was me.' Michael placed an open palm on the cold metal. 'I'll be damned if I let something happen to you again!'

He gnashed his teeth so hard, they hurt. Tears rolled off his cheeks. A familiar cold, black fury overcame him for a moment, but he pressed it down.

He couldn't have told his parents the truth before because he had been weak, but with the status, fame and glory points aplenty, he had enough power to ensure his parents' safety.

Control over Emotions.

A flash of gold, to remove the wet traces from his face.

'We were playing before, Myshkin, but now you've crossed a line. I'm coming for you.'

Michael turned around and locked eyes with Graves.

"How are you? Are your parents in good health?"

"Yes, sir. Please, tell me you've found out how the Russians managed this operation."

"I have." The old man stood a little straighter and invited Michael to his car with a broad gesture. "Let's go back to school. I will tell you everything on the way."

…

Kamyshov sat in his apartment in the teachers' building. The TV was rambling on, but the corrupt Russian professor didn't pay the slightest attention to it. Instead, his focus was on a half-spent bottle of vodka in front of him. With every glass, he tried to drown the anxious trepidation inside him.

He knew this was his last day.

Caught between two powers, both of which used him however they liked, Kamyshov had been forced to choose at last.

The Russians wanted him to spy on Michael North and held his wife hostage. On the other hand, the fellow teacher, who worked for a British lord, didn't appreciate the Russians' meddling and threatened Kamyshov's own life.

The old professor tried to do the right thing for once and put himself in the line of fire. He would rest peacefully, knowing that his family was going to be fine.

There was a polite knock on the door.

Kamyshov shuddered and took a large swig of vodka. On shaky legs, he walked over to open the door. As he expected, the man who would kill him stood there, smiling, as the cool April wind ruffled his hair.

"Hello, professor. May I come in?"

"Drop it," Kamyshov barked, his brows forming a deep frown. "This is not the time for niceties. You're here to kill me, so let's get it over with."

"Quiet, old man!" The younger teacher looked around to make sure nobody heard Kamyshov's loud drunken voice. He pushed the old man aside with his shoulder and stepped into the apartment. "Are you alone?"

Kamyshov huffed in contempt and collapsed on the sofa and once again reached for the bottle.

The visitor took a tour of the apartment and returned in time to see him throw back a glass. "Seriously, is this how you want to go? In a puddle of your own filth?"

The Russian professor took deep breaths, waiting for the alcohol to settle in his stomach. When he looked at his would-be killer, a mask of drunk fury settled on his flushed face. His body swayed even as he was sitting down.

"Save it." The younger man raised an arm, stopping Kamyshov before he could start an argument. "I don't enjoy what's about to happen. You've made your choice. Too bad you can't live with it."

Kamyshov wheezed some curses under his breath but looked away when his would-be killer approached.

"Look me in the eyes. Look!" A strong hand grabbed Kamyshov's face. "Do you have a note here somewhere? Anything that could point Graves in my direction?"

After ten seconds or indignant silence, the man added, "If I find it myself, your wife and son will pay for it."

Kamyshov bit his lip so hard, he almost drew blood. "There is a file on my flash drive. It's in the drawer there."

"Anything else?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Damn you!" Kamyshov raised his voice. "Just get it over with! Don't keep me waiting!"

The younger man smiled, stuffing the flash drive in his pants pocket. "Fine."

He retrieved a small pistol from inside his jacket and screwed a silencer onto it. The miniature weapon didn't look intimidating, but in Kamyshov's eyes, it was the sinister executioner he'd been waiting for.

"Can't make it look like a suicide or an accident; the principal is too smart to believe that. So you get the fast way out. Is there a pillow here, to silence the shot?"

Kamyshov turned around to grab the pillow lying on the sofa, but immediately felt something touch the back of his head. A clueless civilian, he didn't know the silencer was enough.

With a dull poof, the small gun spit out a bullet and painted the wall red.

"Nice and easy, no fooling around." The murderer wiped his gun and hid it back. Now, he had to return to his apartment, take a shower and lay low. But first…

"Patron? Kamyshov is dead," he spoke into a telephone in perfect Spanish.

"Well done. I'll have my people deal with his wife too. Who knows what he might've told her."

"I don't think that's necessary…"

"You don't think. It's not your job. Clean yourself up and wait for the day the English bitch visits the school. You'll have to play the part of the professor now. You got that?"

"Yes, patron."

The assassin looked over the apartment once again and quietly left. The bottle of vodka remained sitting on the table, just another one of Kamyshov's goals in life left unrealized.