The Azure Dragon

by Vladimir Vasilenko

  I'd be taking on a risk. The longer I was gone, the more difficult it would be to explain the reasons and circumstances of my self-will. And the more likely it was that Genghis would find out about it. And God knows how he’d react. I doubted he'd just shake his finger at me.

  If only this risk was justified. It would be doubly insulting if I didn't find out anything in the course of my solitary sortie. I needed to act right away!

  Once again I looked into the interface to see if the green light in the chat was on next to Maverick's name. He was still offline. Given that he lived somewhere in Europe, our time zones were different. But somehow, we managed to meet one time, back in Garax, so he didn’t seem to have a schedule for signing in and out, and he played at different times of the day. He might also just split a session into several small ones like many players did. So I hoped I'd be able to catch him after all.

  I looked around, trying to figure out the direction. There were no rivers below. So I needed to move south, deep into the peninsula. I'd find my way around from there. The only question was how to move.

  Should I just keep going right on the top tier?

  My trained look of an experienced tracer immediately saw fulcrums and obstacles in the interweaving of branches and vines, and began to come up with the routes. Usually, all it took to solve this kind of puzzles was a cursory glance. But here, in an unfamiliar environment, that didn’t work.

  In fact, I read that parkour had originated in the course of observations of African aborigines, watching them deftly and quickly move across rough terrain without any hint of the road, climb trees and rocks, and jump over obstacles. But that was a long time ago. The so-called Methode naturelle has sunk into oblivion in the late twentieth century, and modern parkour is purely urban. And I mainly engaged in its industrial branch. Unfinished or abandoned buildings and industrial zones were my favorite places.

  In general, I was used to dealing with concrete or metal structures—walls, beams, parapets, railings, and so on. Compared to them, the branches and vines looked very unreliable. Well, they actually were unreliable. It is only in the old cartoons about Tarzan, that he manages to move through the jungle, swinging on the vines and hanging from the branches. I personally wouldn't dare to take a risk of jumping on any one of them. First, I couldn’t even see where and how they were attached, and without it, I couldn’t estimate the trajectory of swinging. And secondly, I was not sure one of them wasn’t going to break under my weight. I was about ten floors up in the air at that moment.

  But I had my Silver Stinger, which was almost like Spiderman's web. Too bad it was only twenty feet long. Although, I thought that might be enough.

  I went down a little lower, where the branches of the tree were as thick as large logs. I could just run on them, but I had to look down under my feet not to step on a bird's nest, a tree snake curled up in a ball, a slippery growth of moss, or something like that.

  Spreading my arms out like I was a tightrope walker, I quickly scrambled along the branch until it began to sag under my weight. After some estimating, I jumped forward in the air and fired the Stinger into a branch of the closest shorea that was looming just a few feet from me. Swinging like a pendulum on the stretched-out rope, I released the Stinger in the extreme point of the trajectory and shot it again while in flight, clinging to the other branch. In a short time while I was in the air and not yet picked up by the rope, my heart skipped a beat from the sensation of falling.

  Woohoo! I'm freaking Tarzan!

  But jumping from one branch to another didn't last long. The leaves and vines hanging from the branches and patches of lichen blocked my view, and there was just not enough time to look around and once again shoot the Sting. So one of these times, I overestimated myself and imprinted my face straight into a tree trunk. Because of the immediate flash of pain, I didn't have time to grab the bumps in the bark and swung back, holding onto the rope with one hand at the height of around sixty-five feet. Good thing that the Stinger was securely attached to my wrist.

  I could hardly refrain from screaming out curses. I waited until the amplitude of the rocking subsided and pulled up. It took some effort to get on a branch, but I finally sat on it, dangling my feet. I still had to get used to the new environment and my new tool.

  I didn't have time to sit around. Both gymnastics and parkour follow the same rule: if you fall down, immediately get up and get back to it before the adrenaline wears off and the fear of repeating the mistake starts taking roots.

  For the next hour, I was on the verge of toppling down fifteen more times, but at the last moment, I was saved either by the Stinger, a handy vine, or a branch. Once, I stumbled and flew into the abyss backwards. That was, hands down, an unforgettable experience. Fortunately, it lasted only a second—I bumped into a branch ten feet below, immediately slipped off it, but managed to catch on with one hand, and then grabbed it with the other one. My involuntary scream got a response from below—I heard a familiar screeching, and shortly after, saw the striped backs of Asai on a small clearing under the trees. It was a small group of about a dozen individuals. The lizards started jumping on the spot with joy like toddlers waiting for a treat. At the sight of these toothy gluttons, I felt some undocumented buff from which I literally flew up on the branch without any effort.

  No, it's better not to go down alone.

  But the upper level looked idyllic only at first glance. After I almost flew into a hornet's nest the size of a refrigerator, I became even more attentive to where I was jumping, which only helped a little. In order to immediately notice the danger, it was necessary, at least to have a general idea of what dangers there could be in this upper jungle—it was just a storehouse of all sorts of unpleasant surprises.

  But damn it, what a thrill it was to conduct a series of successful runs and jumps from branch to branch, swinging on the Stinger! This may have not looked very impressive from the outside, but the essence of parkour is not in acrobatics. Real tracers do not like showing off—all that matters is the movement itself, exploring the possibilities of your body, and overcoming yourself. Perhaps that's why I was so attracted to this trend.

  At the time, my father enrolled me in gymnastics in order to "build my character”. He was really obsessed about these things. Discipline, success, leadership. Winning. I never cared about any of that. I was indifferent to rivalry. He, on the other hand, got overwhelmed with excitement as he sensed any conflict, and it was important to him to always be the first in everything. Even if the reason wasn't worth two damn cents.

  He was very annoyed by the fact that I was indifferent to sports since I was a kid. He never told me that directly, of course, but I knew he thought I was spineless. He blamed my mom for that. I overheard them arguing about it a few times. It usually started with accusations that she trusted me and let me get away with too much. Then it ended with caustic remarks about the fact that the son, unfortunately, "took after his mother”.

  He didn’t know I was just different. And that I was not spineless. I took after him, too. Sometimes I was just as relentless, stubborn, and ambitious, but my ambitions were very different. I didn’t care about status, prestige, and what others thought about me. And I was not interested in competing with anyone. However, walking on the edge to see what you are capable of... That got me excited. For example, I didn’t go up skyscrapers without safety for money or for hype. I did it to prove to myself that I could.

  If dad hadn't been so fixated on his ego, he would have realized that he could wrap me around his finger by just saying that I am a wuss for not doing something. But it's too late, I have my own Path now.

  During the weeks spent in Artar, my virtual avatar had become thoroughly stronger. My body was light, strong, and tireless. I ran, jumped, hung on the branches, and climbed up the vines, enjoying every movement. And this was just the beginning! I could become even stronger, faster, more deftly. I would unlock new skills…

  I did not want to think that all this was just a
virtual world.

  The next halt was forced—after the jump, I lost my balance, and instead of moving on mere inertia, I had to frantically grab something to avoid falling. This "something" was not a thick vine, as I first thought, but a tail of a hefty snake, coiled around a branch. If snakes could scream, it probably would have railed at me for entire Uobo to hear. Hell, I almost pulled it down.

  The snake was notable—ten feet in length, with a head the size of my fist. It didn’t seem to be poisonous—it was one of those that lashed out and stifled the victim. I decided not to tempt it and quickly made my way along the branch to the trunk of the shorea, then shot the Stinger up, pulling up to the tier above.

  By now, I was probably two and a half miles deep into the jungle. I moved up the riverbank, and according to Bao, sooner or later I'd reach the Lake of Life. Despite the rather small size of the peninsula, I clearly needed to move at least another six miles. So I moved forward as fast as I could without looking around too much. But there was a reason to look closely now.

  From afar, it looked like huge growths on the trunk of a tree. There were especially many on the trunks that formed cushy horizontal forks. Taking a closer look, I realized that they were man-made. They looked like baskets, woven from flexible sticks and somehow attached to the trunk. Each basket had one main entrance, which was round—about three feet in diameter. Some of them had several small windows the size of a small plate. Almost immediately, I saw the inhabitants of these dwellings—one of them just got out of the shelter and went somewhere higher deftly jumping from branch to branch.

  Vanara!

  It looked a little different from those that we met in Genghis's old camp. Those were more like gorillas, massive and powerful truncheons. This one was much smaller, with a long flexible tail, which was clutching at the branches like an extra hand. It was also lighter in color: smoky gray with black stripes on the tail and white spots around the eyes and chest. Its hands were coal-black, as if it were wearing gloves.

  In a bit, I saw two more. They were sitting on a branch near the cabin, and one of them was nursing a tiny baby that looked like a raccoon from afar.

  I started a meditation cycle to listen more closely to what was happening in this small camp.

  At first, I shuddered—I felt like there was a swarm of bees buzzing behind my back, and each bee seemed to be the size of a fist. Then I realized that this is how the movement of Qi inside the tree trunk was perceived. It was like a huge pipe a couple of feet in diameter, in which the water was rushing under pressure. Only instead of water, it was the purest Qi of the Wood Element. The inner eye perceived it as a huge glowing column of green color. And if you listened to it, you could even distinguish how the giant plant slowly but powerfully pulled the juices from the ground as they rushed higher and higher to the crown.

  There was a Source nearby. Somewhere down on the surface. Judging by the tone of Qi vibrations, it was quite normal. Hence, there was no altar of the Whispering Oak shamans.

  At least, not yet. Well, good…

  A loud ape-like cry came from below and was quickly picked up by several others. I was even knocked out of the state of meditation, lacking just a few seconds to finish the cycle.

  Now that's not very good.

  One after another, the vanaras started coming out of their woven huts.

  One, two ... five ... ten ... How many are there?! What if I flew into their camp at full speed? They would have, probably, torn me apart!

  I was definitely lucky that I wasn’t noticed. Down there, something happened that most likely would distract the tailed beasts. It looked like there was a serious brawl. I wondered against whom they were fighting. Of course, the jungle was full of all sorts of dangerous creatures, but somehow it seemed to me that these vanaras had no natural enemies here. They were supposed to be the keepers of this forest.

  Could it be my team? No, I don't think they would have gotten here faster than I did. Genghis squad? Also doubtful…

  Curiosity got the better of me, and I looked out from behind the tree trunk. It seemed that no one was left in the camp on the branches as everyone rushed down to the place of battle. For a few moments, I was staring intensely, checking each hut, but no one seemed to be inside.

  The sound of fierce cries came from below—the fight sounded like it was for life and death, but I couldn't see anything from my spot. To be exactly over the place of the battle, I had to move to a nearby tree, the one with the vanaras' huts.

  Whatever! Here goes nothing!

  I ran along the branch and, firing the Stinger, swung to the nearby shorea. I hid, pressing my back against the wall of one of the wicker huts. It sounded quiet inside of it, so I peeked in.

  It was cozy and looked more like a bird's nest. The bottom was covered with leaves and something soft, down maybe. In the middle of this cradle lied a baby with huge bulging eyes and its paws in the air.

  Whoops! Okay, kid, you didn't see me, and I didn't see you. I don't want your mother to get mad at me.

  Having moved one level below, I saw the fight and involuntarily froze. I mean, I've seen some shit in Artar before, but this was something else. Everything inside me shrank from horror and disgust.

  This was like two flocks of huge apes. Some of them were massive, with dark thick hair, more like gorillas. The other ones were smaller and more elegant, with long tails and silver in color. They fought without any weapons, using fangs, claws, and their monstrous power. They fought for real, to the last breath. There were fewer gorilla-like beasts, but they were moved by dark, violent hatred that seemed to give them even more strength. It took away the last remnants of pity and doubt.

  The small clearing under the tree was completely flooded with red. Before my eyes, a huge black vanara literally tore the poor tailed one—he knocked him down, fell on top of him, and with one powerful jerk, tore his arm out of his shoulder. A fountain of blood rushed from the terrible wound, and the black villain, rushed to the remaining opponents waving a severed limb. At the same time, one of his comrades-in-arms was chewing on the throat of another gray guy and, pointing his bloody mouth towards the sky, roared so loud that it seemed that the leaves should have fallen off the trees.

  There were only four grays left, and it looked like they were doomed. Among all the corpses that lay at the clearing, only one belonged to the attackers. Everything happened so fast. I wouldn't want to face those monsters. Even if I had a whole pack of Hounds with me. These gorillas were crazy. How could anyone fight them at all?

  I heard a long squeak from above, that sounded like a child's cry. The cub!

  Damn it, I gotta run! When these monsters deal with the locals, they will certainly start combing the neighborhood. Hearing the crying baby, they will quickly find the huts. And here I sit, just waiting to be discovered…

  I fired my Stinger, pulling myself up to the higher tier. I was trying to get to the next tree when I heard the crying again.

  What will these things do to the cubs when they find them? Ugh, I better not even think about it. Who cares anyway? They're just mobs…

  I heard another cry. There was fear, anxiety, misunderstanding in it. It was crying like a human baby. I gritted my teeth, went back to the hut, and slipped inside.

  "What's up, kid? Are you scared?"

  The little vanara froze, silent, staring at me. He looked more like a lemur than a raccoon. His muzzle was small, and his eyes were as huge as bowls.

  I held out my hand to him, and he immediately clung to it with all four limbs. He also wrapped his tail around it.

  "No, not like that! You'll be in my way. Come on, get over here…"

  With difficulty tearing the little monkey off of me, I planted him on my back. There he clung to the straps of my armor and fell silent.

  I looked down cautiously. The cries died down there. It looked like the black vanaras already killed all the locals. They were going to see me in a little bit, and I doubted very much that if there were a chase through the up
per tiers of the trees, I would be able to break away. The jungle was their element. I just went out for a walk.

  "Just hold on tight, man," I whispered to the cub. "We're going to get the hell out of here."

  Chapter 11. The Eternal Banyan Tree

  The fact that I was close to the destination became obvious long before I saw the lake. After about an hour of going upstream, the terrain began to change. There was less wetland, and now I could tell that the elevation was going up. The jungle was grappling on the slopes of a low mountain. Bao has mentioned an extinct volcano.

  The ascent was not very steep but rugged. Here and there, hefty rocks overgrown with moss stuck out from the bushes. I've come across more waterfalls. Sometimes they were very picturesque. The vegetation also changed—shoreas were lower, and bamboo trees were rare. But the thickets in the lower tier became even more difficult to get around.

  The vanara munchkin behaved surprisingly quiet. At first, I even had to check if he was still there. But it turned out his tiny hands had a strong grip, and he wasn't afraid of heights at all. I heard him only two or three times, when he saw immediate danger. Once I underestimated the length of a jump and fell flat on the branches. Another time, a huge spotted cat tried to jump on us. The little guy wasn't even scared of the snake that was on our way. The only thing that bothered me was that he would probably be hungry soon.

  If he's too young to eat fruit, I'm gonna be screwed. Where am I going to find him a boob?

  I was hoping that Artar developers didn't bother with realism to such an extent. This was the first time I've ever seen a baby mob. I remember that dreks hatched fully grown from the masonry and immediately rushed into battle. But vanaras must have been different.