Dragon Heart: Sea of Sand. LitRPG Wuxia Series: Book 4

by Kirill Klevanski

  “It doesn’t matter,” Einen said dismissively. “It’s not very important for understanding the Call of Blood.”

  “To be honest, I thought you’d be more surprised.”

  “Why?” The islander asked.

  “Because I have a dragon’s blood in my veins.”

  The islander shrugged and broke another bone. The fire intensified, blowing out a cloud of white smoke.

  “If you’d told me you have a Dark Storm Dragon’s blood, I would probably have been surprised. You most likely have the blood of a Green Meadows Dragon, though. Their seed is scattered about as far and wide as the Pearl Trout’s.”

  Hadjar once again mustered all his willpower to avoid laughing. After all, their names often didn’t reflect a creature’s full power. For example, the Pearl Trout. Over several million years of life, this species of fish grew to a length comparable to half of Lidus. It was very easy to imagine how astoundingly vast the seas where Einen had been born and had grown up in were when you kept that in mind.

  “As for the Call of Blood, everything is simple,” the islander continued his explanation. “Imagine how powerful a Beast must be to not only be able to turn into a human, but also to be able to sow its seed... or to accept it for that matter. Those who are born to a female Beast always have a more powerful Inheritance.”

  “That’s rather logical.”

  “Yes,” Einen nodded. “Mother Nature is always fair. Even a drop of blood shared hundreds of generations ago carries a small part of a Beast’s power and essence. No matter how well a Beast pretends to be human, in the depths of its soul, it always remains a Beast.”

  Listening to Einen’s explanation, Hadjar gradually got lost in his memories. Ever since childhood, he’d been a very quick-tempered boy, as his father, uncle, and General Atikus had constantly told him. They’d scolded him for this and advised him to restrain himself. Only his mother had smiled warmly, since, with only a touch of her hand, she had been able to calm her son’s anger. Despite all of that, Hadjar had never lost his head due to battle rage. However, in that last battle, he’d dived headlong into a bloody whirlpool, almost drowning in it. Had the bald man not helped him, he would surely have lost himself in that ocean of death. Had that been him or the heart beating in his chest?

  “The Call of Blood is like a double-edged sword. You point one end toward an enemy, but press the other to your own throat. If you can’t hold it back, you’ll perish and turn into your distant ancestor — a beast devoid of reason, guided only by instincts and desires.”

  “And you claim that it can also be used against an enemy?”

  Einen nodded. He opened his eyes and looked at Hadjar.

  “At first, I wondered why you weren’t using the Call. We ended up in a variety of deadly situations, but you didn’t call on your blood. Therefore, I didn’t really trust you. I thought you wanted to use the Call as a trump card. Later on, I began to suspect that you simply didn’t know that you had another sword in your hands. That last battle made everything clear. I realized that you didn’t even know about it.”

  Hadjar silently peered at the vast expanse of the night sky. Whether this was due to the fact that his name was now Hadjar Darkhan and the Bedouin shaman’s amulets hung in his hair or something else, the cold starlight no longer seemed to reject him. Had Traves, sitting in his cave, missed seeing the stars? More to the point, why had his Master been so reluctant to share knowledge with someone he’d shared his very life with? He hadn’t told him anything about the Call.

  “How can I call on my blood?”

  “I was waiting for that question, Northerner,” Einen pulled out a small bag decorated with beads that sparkled in the firelight. “This is a potion that will make you go into a deep sleep, Hadjar. It’ll be so deep that even the light of the World River will become dimmer to you than the farthest star. According to the legends, some powerful cultivators, ones who are at a much higher level than a Spirit Knight, can spend centuries in such a sleep. For them, it's akin to meditation, but for us, it's just a dream.”

  Einen held out the bag. Hadjar took it, not daring to risk untying the complex knot just yet.

  “What will I see in this dream?”

  “Your ancestor,” his purple eyes flashed dangerously, reflecting the orange glow of the fire. “You’ll see the dragon whose blood flows in your veins. You’ll see it at the peak of its power. In all its splendor, and then...” Einen made a theatrical pause, “...You’ll fight it. You’ll fight your inner Beast, suborn it to your will, turning it into a tame pet. That is the only way you can use the Call.”

  Hadjar looked at the bag in his hands.

  “What will happen if I lose?”

  Einen pressed something on his staff, and then smeared the blade that appeared at its tip with a mixture from another bag. He pointed the staff’s tip at Hadjar’s throat.

  “This is the poison of a Trap Fish. One drop of it can kill a whole city. There are five of them on my spear. If I see that the Beast has defeated you, I’ll immediately end your suffering.”

  Hadjar looked from the bag to the poisonous spear tip, and then slowly back again.

  A second later, he drank its contents.

  Darkness.

  Chapter 309

  Hadjar fell into the depths of darkness. The genuine article. Mothers didn’t tell their children about it, and men didn’t sullenly discuss it when they treated their souls with alcohol. This darkness was alive. It moved. It caressed. It beckoned you with the promise of a warm unconsciousness and the assurance of a serene... nothingness. The kind of void that ended all your troubles.

  There wasn’t even a memory of the light to be found here. In comparison to this, a murky evening looked like a naughty child and late at night was more like a shy teenager hesitating before deciding to take the plunge. No monsters hid in this darkness because even monsters ran from it. There truly was nothing within.

  Hadjar disappeared into it. Only the realization that he was falling inside himself didn’t allow him to dissolve. This bit of knowledge, like a strong rope, had seized his heart. With its help, Hadjar could see the distant light of the World River.

  Just as Einen had warned him, it looked like the dimmest star in the darkest sky. But even so, that little glimmer was the whole world to Hadjar. He knew that if he pulled on it, if he called for the light, the darkness around him, no matter how strong it was in its nothingness, would disappear and light would come back. Hadjar was in no hurry to do so. He was well acquainted with the darkness. It had been his faithful companion over the years he’d spent alone.

  Hadjar said, “Hadjar Darkhan,” and the echo of his name spread throughout the darkness. In this echo, Hadjar heard his heartbeat as clearly as he’d heard it in Primus’ dungeon. He had once relied on his own voice and willpower to survive and not give up. He would do so again.

  Hadjar’s will looked like a blade in the darkness. Gigantic, imposingly so, it could tear through the sky and scare the gods themselves. Hadjar didn’t see a bottomless darkness before him, the kind that made most people turn gray or even lose their minds and souls.

  Hadjar perceived it as a door, one leading to power, and he reached for it. His palms shone with black light, as even the color black looked like the golden hue of daylight in this darkness. Hadjar’s hands crushed the darkness, tore it to shreds, and then he landed atop a mountain peak.

  The sharp transition from the suffocating darkness to the abundance of colors made him blink for a moment. When Hadjar opened his eyes, he looked around. He was standing on sharp stones and looking at an endless white cover. At first, he thought it was snow, but then quickly realized that these were actually clouds. Like waves, they rolled across the azure sky. In the distance, painted with crimson and golden tones, they looked like a fluffy blanket that covered the whole world.

  The wind ruffled Hadjar’s hair, held in a ponytail by a simple leather strap. His simple, worn robes fluttered. On his belt — a peasant’s red rope —
his sword hung. His feet were clad only in shabby bast shoes wrapped in rags. However, while dressed this way, Hadjar felt better than many kings in their silk and gold.

  All Hadjar needed in life were his sword, the wind, and the horizon.

  Suddenly, a roar shook the sky, ending the silence. It was the kind of sound that made even Hadjar tremble for an instant. That had never happened before. Immediately pulling himself together, Hadjar drew his blade in one sharp motion. Mountain Wind roared back defiantly.

  A vortex of wind seemed to envelop him. Blue energy, with black sparks hidden inside, swirled around Hadjar’s legs. His blue eyes were fixed on a black dot that seemed to be getting larger by the second as it descended from the sky.

  The dot grew until it was unimaginably big: the bony crests on its back were like a mountain ridge; its green and blue steel scales looked like treetops; its claws were like the peaks of snowcapped mountains; its fangs like thousands of spears and its amber eyes with the familiar, cross-shaped pupils were like two suns.

  Compared to the dragon, Hadjar didn’t look like a bug, nor a speck of dust, not even a microbe. He simply didn’t exist next to the giant. Hadjar was sure that if this had been reality, the mere presence of such a creature would’ve been enough to destroy not only his body, but his very soul. Maybe even the body and soul of a true cultivator like Umar.

  “Master Traves!” Hadjar cried out, covered by the giant’s shadow.

  Traves, whose horns looked like huge rivers, flew above him, not noticing the little man. The most amazing thing was how drastically smaller Traves had been almost eight years ago, in that underwater cave.

  “It doesn’t hear you,” a familiar voice explained.

  Hadjar turned. Next to him stood a man of indescribable beauty and poise. His long, black hair flowed down to the ground. His emerald-colored, silk clothes floated in the wind. Only his horns and amber eyes betrayed that he wasn’t a human.

  “Master Traves,” Hadjar knelt down and touched the stones with his forehead.

  He owed this creature for everything he had and was: his every step, his every breath over the past eight years — all of it had happened thanks to the dragon who had sacrificed everything for him.

  “Every time we meet, you’re more and more like a Lord of the Heavens,” Traves’ lips trembled slightly. With a wave of his hand, he allowed Hadjar to rise to his feet. “I don’t know if that makes me happy or sad.”

  “Why?”

  Together, they stood at the peak of the mountain and watched the great dragon dance across the sky. Fear, admiration, and adoration could be seen in Hadjar’s eyes. Traves looked with nostalgia and sadness at the days gone by. The same way Atikus had looked at the border of the White Forest or how Primus had looked at the old stone near the lake in the palace garden.

  “Remain a human a bit longer, my disciple. I gave my heart to a human with the willpower of a dragon...”

  It seemed to Hadjar like Traves had just imparted some deep wisdom to him, but he couldn’t comprehend it just yet. It was sometimes very difficult for him to communicate with the creature who had lived through entire eras.

  If Hadjar’s perception of the world had changed after his transition to the Awakening of the Soul Stage, then how drastically had the perception of a creature at such a high level of power changed? Maybe he saw and felt reality quite differently. So differently, in fact, that Hadjar couldn’t even try to imagine it.

  “Have you come for the Call?” Traves asked. It was obvious that he already knew the answer.

  “Yes,” Hadjar nodded.

  A gust of wind brought golden leaves toward them. Apparently, this place was somewhere near the mountaintop where the Eternal Autumn Tree resided.

  “I never wanted you to use the Call,” Traves said quietly. “I never wanted you to rely on any Technique. But, apparently, it’s foolish to ask a newborn chick to proudly soar among the clouds above. Promise me, disciple, that one day you’ll give up on all crutches and forge your own path. You cannot make your own way among the heavenly roads otherwise. Only the path that you find through pain and death is the right one.”

  Hadjar once again didn’t understand what his Master meant by that. His simple words formed simple sentences, but they still contained more sense and wisdom than all the books South Wind had owned, and he’d had several thousand of them.

  “Do you know what will happen if you lose?”

  “Yes,” Hadjar nodded.

  Traves looked at his disciple and turned away. He cast one last glance at his past. Then he looked at the distant, golden line formed by the leaves of the mysterious tree as they fell away.

  “On this day, I was at the peak of my power. That’s why my heart brought you here. I’ve never been as fierce and powerful as on this day. I’ve never been so free. My wind has never been so calm...”

  Traves almost slumped down onto a stone. He sat on a simple boulder, but looked so majestic that even an Emperor, sitting on a howling throne made from pure white heaven stone, would’ve killed himself out of envy.

  “You’re still too weak to know the cost of my heart, but you are strong enough for me to start telling you the story of how our destinies intertwined.”

  Hadjar sheathed his sword and sat down beside him.

  Chapter 310

  “I lived in a small village on the outskirts of Dragon City,” Traves began. He gently waved his hand. The air rippled like the surface of a lake and Hadjar, as if through a window, was now looking at an amazingly beautiful valley. There were meadows, plains, hills, and forests. What Traves had called ‘a small village’ was more beautiful than even the grandest palaces Hadjar had seen.

  Sometimes, silhouettes flashed in the sky, or dragons, dancing in the wind, emerged from the clouds. Traves looked like he was no older than Hadjar was now — about thirty. The horns on his head were still simple and straight, his posture wasn’t so domineering and stately, and he didn’t look as wise as the current Traves.

  “It happened so long ago that a sea occupied the place where your homeland stands now.” Traves’ half-smiled, overcome by nostalgia. “I lived without any sorrow in my life. I was the son of a simple farmer of the Dark Storm tribe. We lived adjacent to the Green Meadows tribe. We’d always had a good relationship. We extracted the nectar necessary for the growth of their offspring, and they provided the water of the Pure Dew.”

  As if watching a video being fast forwarded, Hadjar saw the mighty Traves, the greatest of all the creatures Hadjar had ever met, lying serenely on a hill and gnawing on a blade of grass. A shepherd’s staff rested in his paws, and herds of strange animals grazed around him. They looked like a mixture of sheep, cows, and dragonflies.

  Suddenly, the serene image changed. The boundless blue sky was covered in black clouds. Lightning of all colors flashed through them, and then... the sky was on fire. The sky burned, and the huge, scorched bodies of dragons rained down.

  In the midst of this madness saturated with the agony of death, the young dragon was fighting three warriors clad in glittering armor. Hadjar felt that they were much more powerful than the blade enchanted by Ignes had been.

  No matter how hard these three warriors tried, they couldn’t bring down the simple shepherd wielding a staff. Traves was like a leaf floating on the wind. The warriors’ blades and spears couldn’t touch him. He flowed smoothly around their shields, his legs barely touching the grass as his stick hit his foes’ armor.

  “The moment war broke out in Dragon City, our village was attacked. The traitors needed our nectar,” Traves’ voice wavered briefly. “Before that day, I’d never fought, but as soon as I saw the enemy coming toward my house, something changed in me. My old, familiar staff suddenly seemed like a formidable weapon, my hands — its extension. I fought against the warriors of the Dragon Emperor’s Army. Trained fighters couldn’t even touch me. But…”

  The image changed again. While Traves was fighting off those three soldiers, the other soldiers were d
estroying the village. What could farmers do against actual troops? Nothing. Parents screamed, clutching their crying children to them. They shielded them, but fell all the same, bleeding. They covered their children with their bodies in a desperate, final attempt to protect them. Some of them picked up axes and pitchforks. A few even had swords.

  They were slaughtered like cattle. The soldiers, laughing, cracked down on their inept resistance. Some dragged young girls away, gripping their hair, while others played cat and mouse with an old man who was trying to ward off the invaders with a pitchfork and protect his grandchildren who were sobbing in fear.

  Hadjar turned away.

  He remembered these kinds of scenes very well. He’d seen hundreds of them. He could tell, with split-second accuracy, what would happen next, could easily predict how everything would end. Hadjar wasn’t a hero from a fairy tale, like the bards had made him out to be. He’d burned down many villages. Sometimes, during the cold nights, he heard the cries of the people he’d doomed to a brutal death. Sometimes, he begged them to stop screaming, but the voices never fell silent. Damned General’s amulet...

  “I failed, my disciple. Maybe that’s why our destinies crossed.”

  The image changed once again. Three corpses lay at the feet of the panting Traves. They had broken or torn necks that gushed pink, flickering blood. Although they looked human, they definitely weren’t.

  Suddenly, the young Traves turned and looked toward the village. Horror flashed in his amber eyes. A chilling fear. The same kind of fear that had been in the little Prince’s eyes when the most beautiful Queen had breathed her last next to him.