The sense of wonder was tempered by a tightness in Dima’s chest. He remembered Moscow differently.

  A great city with endless streams of people, hours-long traffic jams, noise and light. Crowded subways, packed crossings, shops, cafés, signs that never went dark. Even at night, the city never truly slept—it only changed its pace.

  And now, a different world stood before him.

  He looked at the settlement that had grown on the bones of the past and tried to reconcile it with what he knew. Where wide roads had once stretched, packed dirt paths now ran. Where glass-and-concrete towers had stood, there were houses of wood, fabric, and stone. People lived right among the ruins, as if they had long since become part of the landscape rather than reminders of something lost.

  “Why’d you stop?” Stasyan asked quietly.

  Dima didn’t answer right away.

  “It’s just… strange,” he finally said. “I lived here. Once.”

  “And what was it like?” Dozhor asked.

  Dima exhaled.

  “Loud. Crowded. Fast. Everyone was always rushing somewhere, always late, always irritated. And at the same time…” he gave a faint smile, “no one ever thought it could all just disappear.”

  They moved deeper in, barely stopping.

  The city accepted them with indifference. The flow of people curved around them, split, came together again—never once getting stuck on them. No one showed hostility, but there was little interest either. There was too much life here to linger on every new face.

  Dima noted details automatically, the way he once had while wandering the streets with no destination. Wide spaces between buildings, makeshift walkways, old stone slabs half-swallowed by the ground. The ruins weren’t treated as memory, but as foundation—built onto, leaned against, threaded through with paths.

  The farther they went, the clearer it became: this place hadn’t grown by accident. The city had existed for a long time, and the people here knew how to live together. Not just survive—live. Work, trade, rest, argue, make peace.

  Sometimes Dima caught people looking at him—calm, tired, indifferent glances. His appearance stood out, but not enough to become a problem. There were plenty of strange people and strange stories here.

  A strange heaviness settled in his chest. Not fear, not joy—an awareness of scale. Moscow was no longer the city he had known, but it hadn’t vanished either. It had simply become something else.

  They stopped in one of the wide squares where several roads converged. From here, the city spread out in all directions, dissolving into campfire smoke and rooftops.

  Dima realized this place wasn’t the end of the road.

  It was the beginning of the next layer of the world.

  “We need to find somewhere to rest and get a proper meal,” Stasyan said. “We’ll trade the hides we’ve got left. Didn’t haul them for nothing.”

  Dima nodded and stopped the first passerby he saw.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “Where can we eat and sleep around here?”

  The man turned, stepped closer—and suddenly froze, staring straight into Dima’s eyes. For a few seconds he just stood there, studying him, as if trying to remember something.

  “Uh… hello?” Dima said awkwardly.

  The passerby blinked, waved it off.

  “Oh—right,” he smirked. “Your eyes are just strange. That’s all.”

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  He gestured off to the side.

  “Over there. You can eat and sleep. You won’t miss it.”

  And without adding another word, he walked away.

  The group reached the place that had been pointed out to them. It was a three-story building made of wood and stone. Solid, well maintained, clearly built to last. Above the entrance hung a sign with crookedly carved letters:

  “Grubhouse.”

  They went inside.

  Dima immediately noted the resemblance to some kind of western saloon. A spacious hall, heavy wooden tables, benches along the walls. People sat in groups—eating, drinking, arguing quietly, somewhere playing a tabletop game. The noise was steady and alive, without tension.

  The smell of food hit him at once—thick, warm, real. His stomach clenched unexpectedly.

  Stasyan walked up to the bar.

  “We’re looking for food and a place to sleep,” he said, and without hesitation tossed the hides onto the counter.

  The bartender turned around. A stocky, middle-aged man with a short beard and calm eyes. He looked at the hides in silence, then just as calmly swept them off the counter onto the floor with his palm.

  “We keep this place clean,” he said without irritation. “No need to litter. Hand them over properly.”

  There was no anger or sternness in his voice—just the tone of a rule no one here argued with.

  The bartender waited until Stasyan rearranged the hides neatly, then continued:

  “You’re not locals—I can tell right away. Your hides are worth a lot.”

  He squinted, calculating.

  “I’ll take them for a good meal and one night for the three of you…” — he nodded toward Dima — “…and those pants.”

  Stasyan looked genuinely surprised. Elsewhere, that would have earned him, at best, a couple bowls of thin stew and a spot near the latrine.

  “So you’ve got different rules here, I see,” he said cautiously.

  “Something like that,” the bartender shrugged. “A lot of newcomers are surprised. Outside the city—it’s chaos. I know.”

  He spoke calmly, as if discussing the weather.

  “But here, we keep order. We even have an elder.”

  He glanced at Dima again—just a moment longer than necessary.

  “Without him, this city would’ve fallen apart a long time ago.”

  “What do you mean, an elder?” Dozhor asked.

  “The one in charge of the city,” Dima answered before the bartender could, and gave a faint, involuntary smile at the term.

  The bartender looked at him more closely now. Not in passing.

  “My name’s Grigory,” he said calmly. “And you—you know more than an ordinary drifter. A man out of his time.”

  All of them turned toward him at once.

  “Don’t stare like that,” Grigory added unhurriedly. “I’ve heard the stories. Long ago, others like him appeared.”

  He nodded toward Dima.

  “Strange eyes. Light, well-kept skin. But this is the first time I’ve seen one in person.”

  He paused for a second, as if sorting through old words.

  “What did you call this place back then…” he said slowly. “Morvaya? Or something like that?”

  “Moscow,” Dima corrected quietly.

  Grigory nodded, as if the name finally settled into place.

  “So they weren’t lying,” he said. “Well, I’ll be damned…”

  He looked at Dima again—no longer like a customer, but like a rare find.

  “You should meet the elder,” Grigory said. “He’d want to talk. Learn how things were before.”

  “We need to get some sleep first,” Stasyan replied. “Then we’ll decide.”

  Grigory nodded, accepting the answer without pressure.

  “Fair enough. I’ll bring you food now,” he said. “After that, Sholga will show you to your rooms.”

  The group sat down at one of the tables. They didn’t have to wait long—the food arrived almost immediately. Heavy bowls were set in front of them. It looked like a stew: potatoes, thick gravy, and pale, fibrous meat that vaguely resembled chicken.

  The smell alone made Dima’s stomach clench.

  “Damn… this is good,” Stasyan melted, already stuffing his mouth.

  “I’ve never tasted anything like this,” Dozhor agreed through a full mouth. “If only we could eat like this all the time.”

  Dima ate in silence.

  It was the best food he’d had since arriving in this world. Warm. Filling. Real.

  And still—not that kind of real. Not the kind he was used to before.

  The thought surfaced on its own and vanished just as quickly, leaving behind a strange feeling—as if he’d caught himself thinking something unnecessary.

  He finished, set the bowl aside, and looked around the hall.

  This saloon-like place lived its own life, and for the first time in a long while, Dima was allowed to simply exist within it—not fighting, not running, not choosing.

  At least for one night.

  After a short while, a young woman approached their table. Short, with reddish skin.

  “Come with me,” she said calmly. “I’ll show you your rooms.”

  The rooms were small, but far better than anything they’d had in the village. More spacious, with windows. And the bed was an actual bed—not a pile of leaves under a hide.

  “In the morning, come see Grigory,” the girl said at the door. “He’d like to talk more.”

  And she left without waiting for a reply.

  “If only Borya could see all this…” Stasyan said quietly. “We couldn’t even dream of something like this.”

  He closed the door to his room.

  Shame and regret washed over Dima. For Borya. For everything that had happened before—and for everything that could no longer be fixed.

  He didn’t say anything. He just closed his door behind him and collapsed onto the bed.

  After the long journey, exhaustion took over. His thoughts scattered, and his body shut down almost instantly.

  It didn’t take long to fall asleep.