My Path to Magic 2: A Combat Alchemist Read Online Free PDF Page B

these crazy writings had as much common with reality as the artisans' teachings.  My self-esteem grew after realizing the depth of other people's.
    On Wednesday morning nearly all tabloids published editorials about "another failure of NZAMIPS", printed in yardstick letters (perhaps, to balance paucity of the content). All the articles had one thing in common - apparently, no one had read them before they were sent to the printing press; otherwise, the river would have overflown its banks due to the number of editors drown of unbearable shame. Where the authors obtained their information was an absolute mystery to me. "The night raid had casualties. The hospital admitted dozens of wounded."  The scribblers did not bother to explain why so many people were at the warehouse at night; pure logic suggested that they were there not by accident. Or the next gem: "The NZAMIPS team met fierce resistance and had to apply force." What else was NZAMIPS supposed to do if its people were attacked? Dance with a tambourine? And almost every newspaper mentioned that "Richard Rest's son was among the victims." If not for me, he would have stayed among them forever! I came, saw, and conquered - virtually without fight, to my surprise. Journalists feared to touch Rest's family, but they stamped with enthusiasm on NZAMIPS.   They pulled out to light all conceivable and inconceivable allegations, ranging from NZAMIPS' censorship of public events to the sins of the Inquisition (the fathers of Inquisition, by the way, did not chase the white mages at all). And that was just their first volley!
    I gleefully rubbed my hands in anticipation of repressions - I had a grudge against journalists. To kick NZAMIPS was not the same as to kick a lone private person; the NZAMIPS head was a dark magician, fearsome and formidable, capable of fighting back. In my opinion, the harassment by media could only end in mass slaughter, and if Satal missed somebody, I would treat survivors with a special poisonous powder.  For the fair cause I would spare no stocks! The main thing was to stay away from my favorite teacher, so that he couldn't nail me along with the guilty.
    Against my expectations, the second volley didn't happen - an inexplicable burst of sanity spread among the Redstone's scribblers (later Quarters told me that his dad informed the editors that he would not cover their lawsuit costs).  Since Thursday, the articles became more objective: obscure allegations almost disappeared, "unexpected failure" was replaced by "unexpected success of NZAMIPS", and "fresh blood that the new regional coordinator brought" sounded almost like praise. The Urban Messenger issued a huge, double-size front page with information about the "victims"; their gray-haired leader was wanted by the police of Ingernika for five years; he served as a financial adviser to the artisans, specializing in young heirs of large fortunes. They wheedled the future victims or, if this did not work, simply abducted them, after which the heirs promptly became fanatical supporters of the artisans. The sectarians did not wait for inheritances for long: rich relatives of the neophytes usually died within a month, and all their assets suitable for conversion into cash were quickly sold.  The timing was important: the sectarians' rough methods of "wheedling" didn't produce long-term results; so the artisans quickly disappeared with the money, and the neophytes were sent to the loony bin with incurable mental disorders.
    I imagined Quarters drooling and realized that I did the right thing helping him, despite some unforeseen consequences. I could not picture insane Ron, dead - maybe, but cripple - certainly not.  It remained to see how my help to Ron would turn for me. Of all the possible threatening consequences, only Satal came to my mind.  Artisans seemed to be set to earn a reputation of clowns, Rustle behaved modestly, I managed to keep Uncle Gordon's book secret, and I wasn't followed by