Dmitry spent the rest of the day in thought. He needed to find a way to earn local money. A lot of it, and fast.

  The way out seemed obvious—sell something unnecessary. But what? What could be sacrificed without later regret?

  Dmitry paced back and forth in the Ark's cabin. His gaze snagged on spoons and forks, then on a souvenir Hawaiian hula dancer figurine glued to the dashboard, then on the blanket on the bed. And all of it seemed like exactly the wrong thing to be worth five hundred gold.

  — Right! Sit down and calm down! — Dmitry ordered himself.

  He sat directly on the floor, legs crossed. Took a deep breath. Exhale. Another breath. Exhale.

  What is valued in the Middle Ages? Weapons. What kind? Obviously, high-quality steel. So, a knife. He had one suitable one—a folding Benchmade made of powder steel. It looks expensive, and it cuts terrifyingly. If he found a knowledgeable person... he could try. Но that wasn't enough.

  What else? Fabrics. More precisely, clothes made of materials that aren't here. Synthetics, whiteness, softness.

  And then it hit Dmitry. After all, he was from a family that always knew how to make money out of thin air. He needed to hold an auction for the elite. He had plenty of things that were extremely rare in this world but held no value for himself.

  He remembered the lower locker. There lay trophies from his past life. Polyester slippers and snowy-white terrycloth robes. He had carried them with him just in case, "for guests." They had once been brazenly (and, as it turned out, presciently) stolen from a luxury hotel in Morocco. Guests never happened in the Ark, but the slippers and robes remained.

  Dmitry lunged for the locker under the bed. He rummaged through the items and triumphantly pulled out the bundles.

  Exactly! Still in the factory plastic bags. White, fluffy, with the hotel’s gold monogram. Just the thing.

  Now he just had to create the hype properly. Dmitry knew for sure: there is nothing more expensive than human vanity. Only the wealthiest person would want to own a rare thing, and only so everyone around would know—he bought this bauble for a fortune simply because he could.

  A malicious smirk appeared on Dmitry's face.

  — What is that, Teacher? — Toby stood behind his shoulder, intently watching the rustling bundles in Dmitry's hands.

  — This, I hope, is what will bring us a mountain of money, — Dmitry answered, tucking the "treasures" into his backpack. — And why are you up? I told you to lie down. You’ll get up when you're stronger. I’ll talk to you when I get back from the city. For now... come, I'll show you the refrigerator.

  Dmitry spent the next hour on a crash course. The soup in the pot had already cooled and needed to be put away. He showed Toby how to use the refrigerator, explaining that "cold winter" lived inside, preventing food from spoiling. Then they moved to higher magic—the microwave.

  Dmitry made the boy repeat everything himself. Toby caught on instantly. When he pressed the button and thirty seconds later pulled out a hot mug of water, his delight knew no bounds.

  — Hot! — he whispered, burning his fingers. — Without fire! Without coals! Here is true wonder!

  Having mastered the skills, the newly minted "Keeper of the Kitchen" personally reheated dinner for himself and his teacher, beaming with pride.

  It grew dark outside. Dmitry wanted to go to bed early—at dawn tomorrow, he and the Baron would set out for the city. The road ahead was long, and the weather was garbage. Dmitry understood two things. First: he'd have to sleep not on an orthopedic mattress, but on the cold ground in a sleeping bag. Second: from such an adventure, his spine, held together by a titanium plate since that accident, was guaranteed to revolt.

  Therefore, he approached the packing like a special operation. A first-aid kit went on the table. Syringes, ampoules of Diclofenac (3mg), blister packs of muscle relaxants, and a tube of menthol-based warming ointment. This was the minimum without which he risked not making it back or collapsing as a paralyzed lump somewhere in the forest.

  He also selected his clothes carefully. Everything practical, membrane-based, waterproof. Separately, he pulled out a dog-hair belt. Coarse, prickly, smelling of dog. An old rehabilitation specialist had given it to him when Dmitry first got back on his feet. "Wear it, kid," the doctor had said. "Chemistry is chemistry, but dry heat is better."

  This belt had saved his back more than once when going out into the cold. Over it, Dmitry decided to wear a rigid orthopedic brace (corset). It was uncomfortable to move in, but it held the vertebrae and extended his activity time. 'My back won't thank me,' Dmitry thought gloomily, looking at the mountain of gear. 'But there’s no choice.' From weapons, Dmitry decided to take a Benelli M4 and two boxes of buckshot shells for it. A nine-millimeter pistol with a spare magazine went into the holster.

  Into the backpack went a lightweight two-layer tent, two packs of army MREs, a sleeping bag rated for 14°F (-10°C), a camp stove with a canister, a self-inflating mat, and a custom camp cleaver-shovel—an indispensable tool for the forest. The weight was substantial.

  Dismissing gloomy thoughts, Dmitry went to the cab. His leather-upholstered driver's seat had a massage function. It was what he needed most right now.

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  Dmitry passed the sofa where Toby was already snoring, curled up under a camel-hair blanket. He sat in the pilot's seat and pressed the "Relax" button. The mechanism hummed quietly; rollers began to knead the tight muscles of his back. His body gradually relaxed.

  Dmitry extinguished the main light, leaving only the soft lower floor lighting. It was raining again outside—snakes of droplets crawled across the armored glass, distorting the view of the gloomy silhouette of the castle. Inside the Ark, it was so good, warm, and safe. Chills ran down his skin at the mere thought that tomorrow he’d have to leave this capsule of comfort and sleep under the open sky in the mud and cold.

  A treacherous thought flickered in his head again: 'Maybe go in the vehicle?' It would shorten the path to a couple of hours and turn the overnight stay into a rest. But Dmitry brushed away the temptation. The risk wasn't justified. For the Baron, he had made up an excuse about fuel economy. In reality, Dmitry feared something else. The appearance of a massive, roaring steel beast at the walls of a medieval city would raise an unhealthy stir. Likely, the city guard would decide to seize the "curiosity." Or mages (if they are there) would strike it with something. Or they’d just burn it just in case, as a devil’s wagon.

  No. Until the tanks are full, until he knows the power balance—he must sit tight. And then... let them catch him. If they can.

  With those thoughts, the massage program ended. Dmitry, reluctantly climbing out of the seat, took a hot shower—who knew when he’d get to wash again—and went to bed.

  He dreamed of something unsettling: now he was drowning in a marsh, now he was running from someone invisible. But Dmitry finally woke up from a dream in which it seemed to him that he was left alone, without the Ark. He was lost and wandered, lost, in a wet, bare forest in total darkness. From this thought, sleep flew away like a cannon shot.

  — Damn it! — Dmitry cursed in a whisper, wiping the last of the sleep from his face with his palm. — How did I not think of that?

  Looking at the clock, he saw it was 6:50 AM. There was about an hour and a half left until dawn. Time to prepare. Dressing quickly, Dmitry sat at the desk and began to jot down calculations.

  — So... about fifty kilometers to Northcross. The terrain is flat, but it's still quite a distance. The Ark’s standard radio station won't reach. How to proceed?

  Dmitry drank coffee, staring out the windshield. There, in the morning twilight, the outlines of the castle were barely visible against low clouds that were incessantly shedding a fine rain.

  — What an unpleasant sky they have here, — he muttered. — The sky! Exactly!

  He quickly bent over the keyboard, typing a query for the AI. The answer came instantly: the planet's ionosphere was capable of reflecting shortwave signals, which allowed coverage of a much larger area than direct line-of-sight. He just needed a high-quality receiver.

  Dmitry happened to have one. He had once been given an old portable Harris radio. He hadn't even taken it out of its case once.

  — Perfect. I’ll set the Ark to constantly broadcast a packet signal. The Harris will receive it and send a response pulse, and the software on the tablet will build the positioning.

  Now he’d have his own personal beacon in this world. Until the batteries died, he’d always know where his home stood. Slipping past the sleeping Toby, Dmitry rushed outside. Squelching through the mud, he ran to one of the external cargo compartments. There, among the entrenching tools and folding furniture, he found a long-forgotten gift from Earth’s military—a thick waterproof case. Inside lay the Harris radio.

  Hastily checking the charge, Dmitry ensured the energy would last with plenty to spare. Closing the case, he trotted back to the module. The remaining time was spent on the software link. Now both the radio and the Ark clearly knew their tasks. A pulsing dot appeared on the tablet, over the map compiled by the drone. Dmitry knew his position to the centimeter.

  Sighing with relief, he leaned back in the chair and noted with surprise that it was already light outside. Just at that moment, Hans appeared from the castle gate postern, followed by Baron Coen. Each had a scrawny bag slung over a shoulder. A sword glinted dully at the Baron's belt, while Hans gripped a spear in his hand.

  — Crap, now they'll have to wait for me, — Dmitry muttered with annoyance, climbing out of the seat and hurriedly changing into trekking gear.

  Toby woke up from the commotion. He watched silently, with superstitious delight, as his teacher donned intricate clothing, deftly clicking buttons, velcro, and fasteners. Finally, a dark blue storm cloak with a deep hood and hems reaching his ankles went over his shoulders. Dmitry didn't intend to get wet, and this fabric could withstand a tropical downpour, let alone local drizzle.

  — Well, let's sit for the road, — Dmitry said and, following the old custom, sat on the sofa next to Toby, scanning the compartment. — Aha! Almost forgot!

  He rushed to the dish cabinet and retrieved a small stainless steel pot and a copper camp mug. A spoon and fork were part of his multi-tool, but without containers, things would be difficult. Stuffing the dishes into his backpack, Dmitry shouldered it, clicked the waist support, and, wishing Toby a good stay, stepped out of the Ark.