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

by Kirill Klevanski

  Chapter 327

  When Hadjar saw the four scarlet crescents coming toward him, he realized he could deflect them, but only if he used his whole energy reserve. Unfortunately, he had maybe half of it left. So, he had to use the Call.

  As Traves had taught him, Hadjar ‘sank’ to the deepest recesses of his mind. There he found a small, black dragon with blue patterns across its scales. It was curled up like a kitten, asleep and drifting in the void. Hadjar reached out as if to pet it. The little dragon started, smiled, and jumped, barrelling into Hadjar’s chest. All of that took less than a second.

  Back in reality, Hadjar felt his dragon heart thudding wildly, the tattoo he’d gotten in the trial burning. He got his second wind. All of his wounds healed up, his muscles filling with strength and vigor. His energy changed, becoming thicker and cleaner, as if the tattered black cloak woven from mist that lay across his shoulders was some sort of filter.

  Running the power through itself, it kept the taint and darkness behind, passing on only the pure nectar of raw, magnificent energy. Alas, Hadjar had only a second and a half to use the power of his blood.

  “Strong Wind!” He shouted, swinging his blade parallel to the ground. His attack looked like a roaring black dragon with blue sparks along its scales. Turkut saw this and recoiled. The power emanating from this mere practitioner’s Technique was... at the Peak stage of the Heaven Soldier level, not a bit lower.

  The red crescents were smashed as easily as a giant elephant could break some porcelain dishes. Scarlet shards of the once-mighty Technique splashed across the sand, mingling with the crimson rivers of blood. The dragon didn’t stop. Snarling, its jaw filled with sword-fangs, he lunged for Turkut.

  “Whirlwind of the Crimson Sunset!” The officer of the Sunshine Army said through gritted teeth.

  His sword turned into a steel cocoon that encircled the officer. With each strike, a small but bright, scarlet crescent seemed to peel off from his blade. Shrouded in the white wind, it looked like an unsheathed sword. However, this kind of innocuousness was the essence of Turkut’s best defensive and attacking Techniques both.

  More than once, he had seen the worthiest among new cultivators, proud of their progress, crushed by the scarlet sabre-crescents. His Technique was the epitome of skilled energy manipulation. Even the swiftest attacks couldn’t get through it. A mixture of attack and defence was the essence of his fighting style.

  The red whirlwind collided with the bluish dragon. An explosion sounded, causing the sand around them to swirl like a glittering cloud. His Technique hit the dragon, and he felt triumphant for a moment.

  The only thing that Turkut hadn’t considered was the fact that his opponent wasn’t really controlling the Technique. This wasn’t a clash of their energies and willpower, but him defending against a simple attack, one that didn’t require an unbreakable bond with the warrior who’d launched it to be effective.

  Wrapped in clouds of black mist, Hadjar appeared on his enemy’s left. Turkut’s startled look, caused by the fact he hadn’t even noticed his foe had moved, was the best reward Hadjar could’ve asked for.

  Using his momentum and the strength of his legs, Hadjar straightened his knees and made a downward slash. The blade cut into Turkut’s body deeply, leaving a black trail behind. The blow was so swift and powerful that Sankesh’s officer was thrown back several steps. The scarlet crescents had managed to defeat the dragon, but it was too late.

  Turkut, pressing down on a terrible wound on his chest and spitting out blood, rose up, leaning on the hilt of his sabre for support. He and Hadjar had switched places: the officer was now the one who didn’t understand what was happening.

  Hadjar’s black cloak was gone, and his sword was no longer shrouded in the roiling, black mist. Blood spurted out from the wounds on Hadjar’s body once again, his muscles weakening. He swayed, but managed to steady himself.

  Despite using the Call, he still had as much energy as he’d had before activating it. The strange Technique had drawn upon some other resource.

  “Not bad, Hadjar Darkhan,” Turkut grunted out. He stood up and wiped away the blood at the corners of his lips, “but it’s time to finish this.”

  He took a small dagger from his belt in one swift movement. Strange runes and symbols flashed along the length of the miniature weapon and energy spiraled around it.

  “End him,” Turkut ordered the dagger, which leapt from his palm.

  “Is this the extent of your honor?” Hadjar growled out, barely managing to lift his sword up in defense.

  “My artifacts are part of my power,” the officer shrugged in response.

  The dagger, flying through the air like a bird, attacked Hadjar from unpredictable angles. Hadjar couldn’t anticipate what it would attack next: his legs, back, or forehead. As soon as Hadjar deflected one blow, the dagger attacked from the other side, like an annoying wasp buzzing around an awkward peasant.

  As this went on, Turkut stood with his eyes closed. Energy swirled around him. Twisted into many different vortices and spirals, it sometimes assumed some subtle outlines. This wasn’t a Spirit, but it was something damn close to it. The officer was clearly quite talented, regardless of his rank.

  Hadjar, generously watering the sand with his blood, fought against the restless dagger artifact. Having repelled yet another attack aimed at his chest, Hadjar realized that if he continued wasting time on this, whichever Technique Turkut used would be the last thing he would ever see.

  The dagger dodged strong attacks, ones that were more middling in power just changed its trajectory, and it completely ignored the weak strikes. It was persistent and seemingly unstoppable. Only Hadjar’s speed and dexterity helped him avoid being cut to pieces.

  A crazy idea occurred to Hadjar. The dagger was rushing toward his heart when he, after dipping his blade in his own blood, dodged at the last second. It looked like luck, but in reality, it was pure concentration and speed. The dagger, flying past after missing by mere inches, had already begun to turn back when a powerful strike hit it from above. Before steel clashed against steel, Hadjar’s blood dripped down onto the artifact. That was enough to fool the magic hieroglyphs for a moment.

  When the dagger felt its target’s blood on it, they faded and it began to fall. The magic would’ve probably figured out that it hadn’t defeated the enemy yet after a moment or two, and had, in fact, only wounded him, but it didn’t get a chance to do so. Mountain Wind smashed the dagger into a shower of fragments, and they rained down like crystal dust, scattering across the sand.

  Hadjar’s joy at his triumph did not last long. A barrage of unrestrained energy hit him. Kicking up waves of sand, it pushed Hadjar back several feet.

  Turkut, surrounded by a golden glow, shone from the inside. Energy streamed off his body, and his saber left behind hundreds of illusory doubles as it moved. The officer traced a strange pattern in the air, one that brought battle and death with it.

  “Secret Technique: Sunset Wind!”

  Hadjar’s only thought was: Why are most of these Technique names so silly!

  Chapter 328

  The saber finished its dance and the energy returned to Turkut. It became a huge whirlwind that spun until it froze and turned into a sparkling, golden pillar. Almost thirty feet high, it gradually took the form of a gigantic saber. It obeyed the original saber’s will, the one wielded by the officer.

  “Damn-” Hadjar didn’t get to finish his thought. The huge saber created by the Technique mimicked the movements of the real one. It began its inexorable descent toward Hadjar’s head. The downward swing caused a real hurricane. Kicking up clouds of sand, it made them sparkle and shimmer in the light, thereby justifying the unexpectedly accurate, albeit still pathetic, name.

  Hadjar knew perfectly well that he didn’t have a chance in hell of dodging or blocking this attack. There was only one thing he could do — counterattack.

  Over the past few months, his understanding of the mysteries of the Sw
ord Spirit had advanced further than during all the years he’d spent in Lidus. The mysterious ‘black sword’ in his soul had been added to his arsenal. He didn’t really understand how to use it properly and had only a quarter of his energy left, but Hadjar wasn’t about to give up.

  Assuming his favorite, freeform stance, as the wind blew across his skin and ruffled his clothes, his sword pointed toward the sand, Hadjar looked not at the gigantic saber, but at his enemy.

  Mountain Wind calmly rose. A whirlwind of the blue energy with black sparks running through it circled around him. Hadjar, with a sigh, peered at the bloody cut on Turkut’s chest.

  Suddenly, it dawned on him. Previously, he’d perceived the sword as only a weapon. Even after he’d become ‘One with the Sword’ and ‘One with the World’, he’d kept doing it. To him, the sword had remained just a way to defeat an enemy, to kill them, to win his battles, to overcome obstacles… and nothing more.

  But right then, he realized that his sword was the one thing that had never failed him and had always supported him. It was always ready to answer his call and had never betrayed him. It would quickly join any fight, yes, but it was also a mirror, useful for slicing bread, maybe a ruler, even a crutch. The sword, unlike a saber, had never been intended to be used exclusively in battle. It was a way to survive, a faithful companion, his only friend. Even if everyone else turned their back on him, the sword would still be his single most reliable and incorruptible refuge. An ally.

  Hadjar froze and looked at the sword in his hands. He looked at the extension of himself that he held in his callused palms.

  The sword wasn’t this strip of steel, as whatever he picked up would be a sword. He himself was the sword...

  The battle froze. Everyone felt cold steel lick their skin, as if hundreds of blades had cut through a cloud of sand, forcing it to become little more than dust and settle across the crests of the dunes. The whirlwind of power around Hadjar disappeared. It poured into his hands, his sword, and his body.

  Those who understood what was happening were looking for shelter, but realized that they wouldn’t have enough time to hide from the gaze of the swordsman clutching his blade. According to the legends, if you were within fifty steps of them, there was nothing that could hide you from the attacks of a Wielder of the Sword. Wounded, with tattoos on his arm, chest, and back, he stood in front of them. The aura of the Sword seemed to emanate from his very essence. The dragon in his blue eyes coiled around this inner sword.

  Hadjar didn’t notice how the battle stopped, or Turkut’s terrified expression. He just kept looking at his reflection in the hilt of his sword.

  If the sword was him, and he was the sword, then it made no difference who fell off the dry autumn branch, assuming the form of an autumn leaf. After all, they fought together. He fought alone. Hadjar Darkhan. The Sword. One and the same.

  “Autumn Leaf,” Hadjar whispered and disappeared.

  When he reappeared, he nearly fell, feeling unsteady on his feet. Driving his blade into the sand, he barely remained upright. Behind him stood Turkut, unable to comprehend what was going on. His secret Technique — the huge saber made of light — cracked and shattered in a brilliant display of sparks.

  The officer of the Sunshine Army wanted to say something, but couldn’t. His severed head rolled off his body. A fountain of blood gushed toward the azure sky and irrigated the sand. For a moment, there was only oppressive silence, and then a desperate cry broke it:

  “He’s weak! Kill him!”

  A dozen bandits rushed Hadjar. Each of them was at the Transformation of the Spirit Stage. They were fresh, almost not having participated in the battle, and they started to prepare their best Techniques, but...

  Hadjar’s eyes flashed. Around him, deep gouges spread across the sand, and his sword seemed to blur as it flew toward them. A dozen swift slashing and cutting attacks merged into one. A dozen ghostly dragons, floating atop the razor-sharp streams of wind, swept through the air. The same amount of bloodied bodies, reduced to minced meat, fell to the sand.

  The people of the caravan cried out victoriously. All the attackers turned in unison toward the most dangerous foe on the field. Hadjar, exhausted and wounded, stood on a pile of dead bodies. Ankle-deep in blood, barely moving, he looked fiercer and more dangerous than the wildest predators.

  He would’ve roared and raised his blade higher if he’d had the strength, but he simply couldn’t muster enough energy to do so.

  “Not so fast,” a dry, old voice said menacingly.

  Rahaim appeared nearby. He waved his hand and hundreds of white threads soared through the sky. They pierced the supposed bandits, and one by one, they fell to the ground. Kharad’s warriors attacked the immobilized and powerless fighters. Shakar and Shakh did the same. Einen, whose attacks would turn into shadow apes, stopped those whom Rahaim’s terrible Technique couldn’t reach.

  The old man, not paying attention to the battle, turned to Hadjar. For the first time, warmth and even a certain amount of concern could be seen in his eyes.

  “You did well, Northerner, everything is okay-”

  With a crunch, two daggers pierced Rahaim’s chest. Hadjar recognized them immediately.

  “I had assumed you wouldn’t come out, old man.”

  Rahaim turned his head and saw Ilmena. But the girl’s face was changing rapidly: her bones were bubbling like boiling water, her skin was darkening, even her eye color and shape were changing. Soon, instead of Ilmena, a completely different girl stood on the sand, one that looked like a panther.

  The stranger tore off the earring in her ear, and Hadjar suddenly found it difficult to breathe, as the uncontrolled power of a Spirit Knight hit him.

  “It’s you,” Rahaim said before falling to the sand.

  Instinctively, he grabbed Hadjar and pushed him beneath his body.

  “How sweet,” the completely unfamiliar voice said. “The old man is trying to protect a barbarian... I’ll tell my father about it, he’ll get a laugh out of it.”

  “Hadjar!” Someone screamed.

  Hadjar looked up with great difficulty and saw how the stranger was holding a crying Serra’s hand tightly. She couldn’t pull her hand away, and Hadjar barely had enough strength left to whisper: “Don’t touch her!”

  “Oh, have you truly grown attached to this piece of ancient magic?” The stranger’s lips twisted into a smirk. “Well, that’s too bad for you. Goodbye.”

  She took a jade seal from her pocket and, after breaking it, threw it down on the sand. The second she did so, a low, vibrating rumble hit his ears. The other warriors didn’t understand what was going on, but Hadjar did. He’d already heard something like this noise... Coming from Traves. It was a dragon’s roar. The stranger had used an artifact that served as bait.

  “At least you’ll have something to do, my dears,” she blew them all a kiss, leapt up onto a Desert Raven, and spurred it on, riding past the fortification.

  All of this happened behind Kharad and the rest of the warriors, hidden from them. Shakar rushed over to Rahaim, but it was already too late.

  Suddenly, night seemed to fall in mere seconds. Then thunder sounded. In reality, it was the noise made by gigantic wings and the ‘night’ was their shadow. A huge dragon was flying toward them to answer the call of the bait.

  “Bring her back,” Rahaim wheezed, “... Serra... is... a key... to... the library...”

  His trembling, dry hands handed two flasks to Hadjar. They were filled with the poison and its antidote.

  “Give her... the elixir of the gods...” Rahaim continued. “Only... then... can she... become... a human.”

  “What?” Hadjar asked uncomprehendingly, but Rahaim was already dead and his last breath fell from his lips.

  The earth shook as a gigantic mountain fell upon it. In the real world, the dragon looked much scarier than the one that Hadjar had fought against in his dream.

  Cursing, Hadjar reached for his bag that held the fairy’s body.
Maybe he would regret doing this, but if the legends were true...

  Closing his eyes in disgust, Hadjar swallowed the body of the gods’ messenger. He didn’t have time to think about the consequences. The only thought occupying his mind was: Not again! This time, she will live!

  A column of black energy soared toward the sky.

  Chapter 329

  The full moon hung in the sky outside the window.

  He loved looking at it. Even when he’d been stuck in hospital, he’d liked looking at that white, cold disk. It had always felt like a kindred spirit, oddly enough. It was silent and indifferent to his life, honest like no one else was. It didn’t offer him false sympathy or regret. It just shone. Sometimes, it was so bright that he had to squint against the light, but he never called a nurse to close the blinds.

  Sometimes, it was obscured, almost invisible. The heavy urban smog, which rose up from factories and highways to merge with the clouds, hid it from view.

  Although he wanted to live, he’d never been afraid of death. It often felt like he was living in a coffin, so heavy was the sky. How long ago had it been...?

  Now, little Hadjar was lying in a warm, soft bed. He tried to move his hand up but failed. The body of a two-month-old baby couldn’t perform such complex, deliberate movements.

  [Command execution has failed! The rate of data transfer to the nervous system is too slow! Error number…]

  Hadjar had recently finished reconfiguring the neuronet so it used Lidish. He’d convinced himself that it was so he could learn the language more quickly. However, he knew that he was lying to himself. In fact, everything was because of her, the most beautiful woman he’d ever known, someone he loved with all his heart.

  Getting up from her bed at the other end of the huge chamber, a beautiful young woman approached his small crib. Her thick, black braid lay across her satiny shoulders covered with translucent silk. Her green eyes shone brightly, full of sincere, unconditional love and care. Before taking the baby into her arms, she warmed them above the nearby oven.