The Time Master (Interworld Network Book I): LitRPG Series by Dmitry Bilik

Chapter 1

My least favorite things in the world were chicken liver, heartburn, and helping people. No, my parents hadn't spawned a scoundrel. It's just that I'd rather help someone because I want to, not because I'm pressured to.

"Sergei, I think he's probably gone to the foundation pit," my neighbor's words added boiling oil to the cup of my already-heated patience.

Masha was only three years older than me, but somehow I ended up addressing her like I was a kid and she was an adult, while she graciously talked to me as though we were equals. On top of that, at age 28 she had two kids, a docile husband, and her own apartment, no matter that it was off the beaten path. In contrast, besides nine pairs of oddly colored socks, I owned nothing in particular.

But that mischief maker known as fate had brought us together on the same floor of an apartment building after my father's grandmother died. I inherited her apartment, breaking free of the parental nest but falling into Masha's web. Apparently, the universe was doing its best to maintain equilibrium.

You'd be hard pressed to call me a pushover. At no time would I have a girl order me around. I always made that much perfectly clear. Yet I'd somehow missed that opportunity with Masha. I once helped her carry her stroller downstairs—you know, as a neighborly thing to do. Then one time when I went to the store, I picked up some yogurt while I was there. After that, there was no stopping her.

I should probably mention that Masha was smart. She never crossed the line with her errands, but she could occasionally knock you off balance, like today. Except that her quests always came with the label "legendary" and forced you to work up a major sweat.

"OK, I'll check if he's there," I said with a nod, reaching for my cigarettes.

Her window immediately banged shut. It wasn't May, after all, and she had a suckling baby at home. I heaved a heavy sigh and threw on my hood.

"I see that the Young Communist is helping out the needier families?" an old man in a ski cap inscribed "Sport" observed snidely from his perch on the bench by the entrance.

I smiled. I liked Mr. Sergeyev. The old fellow was a local institution. He was a professor who'd once taught the history of the CPSU and other subjects that were undoubtedly important, but he hadn't been able to change his ideas in time. When the country went through perestroika, Mr. Sergeyev was left behind. So he developed a taste for the demon drink, and eventually lost the battle for good. He was dragged along by his wife, a hardy, permanently angry woman for whom her hubby had become like a suitcase that had lost its handle. It was hard to pull, but it would be a shame to discard it.

"Something like that. Her husband is away overnight and her little Vasya went for a walk. He was supposed to be home a half hour ago. I'm on my way to the store and volunteered to go see where he's hiding."

"The road to hell is paved with good intentions," Mr. Sergeyev said sagely.

"Oh, I know that. What are you doing hanging around freezing here?"

"Waiting for a buddy. We've decided to organize a symposium. Give me a cigarette, will you? It's not for me—my friend is the one who smokes. I always tell him it's bad for him and he's destroying his health, but he'll hear nothing of it."

I smirked and gave him a cigarette. As I walked away from the entrance and lit up, I heard the crackling of cigarette paper and the dry tobacco. I took a couple of drags and fell to thinking.

The foundation pit, huh?

It was right across the street from the local supermarket where I was going. At one point an ambitious development company had decided to build a modern, attractive multistory building in our backwater. It bought out private homes, surveyed the land, and started to excavate a foundation pit. But something didn't pan out on their end. More precisely, something literally flamed out: one night, the office downtown caught fire. Perhaps competitors were to blame, or a circuit, or maybe a combination of the two. So the company vanished into oblivion, leaving behind nothing but a foundation pit. You can guess who immediately took a liking to this local monument.