Sitting down, Einen immediately closed his eyes and plunged into meditation. Hadjar stood next to the bars. He wanted to chat and laugh, but the silent islander wasn’t suitable for such things. His hand involuntarily reached for the leather wallet with the two bracelets.
“Northerner,” a muffled voice came from the pipe.
With a heavy creak, the bars rose, revealing a passage into a long, dark corridor. Without looking back, Hadjar went inside. After about a hundred yards, he heard the bars lower back down. Another hundred yards later, he listened to the second set of bars rising in front of him.
Unsheathing his blade, he boldly walked forward. The darkness didn’t scare him. He had already seen a darkness that was hundreds of times worse than the absence of light could ever be.
Soon, a bright light appeared at the end of the tunnel. Hadjar grinned at this metaphor. The humor of the situation calmed his soul, and his hand moved away from the wallet.
Entering the place where the light was coming from, Hadjar closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, he saw that he was in a kind of arena. It was a huge, sandy place with a diameter of at least two hundred and twenty yards. It had thick walls that smoothly curved into a dome, the center of which had a huge hieroglyph, emitting light, circling around it.
The heavy bars lowered behind him. Runes and magic symbols flashed across them immediately.
“Listen carefully, Northerner,” the voice seemed to emanate from everywhere at once, “since it’s your first time, your task is very simple. We’ll release a beast, and you need to defeat it. Nothing that any other practitioner couldn’t handle.”
No further explanation was given. What was the point of this? What did they gain from it? When was lunch? All the answers remained behind the stone walls and within the heads of the local researchers.
Ahead of him, the shutters rose slowly. The entrance was large enough that the huge beast, which Nero and Hadjar had killed during the war with ‘The Black Gates’ sect, could’ve easily passed through it.
Hadjar assumed a low fighting stance and prepared to meet whatever enemy fate decided to send against him.
With a roar, without waiting for the shutters to open completely, a huge, 25ft creature jumped into the arena. Waves of sand surged up when it roared. Its fangs were capable of tearing apart steel armor, and its claws could’ve cut through a battering ram.
However, Hadjar just smiled. The gods really had a good sense of humor. It was an emerald wolf. The very first monster that Hadjar had ever defeated. This time, the beast was in the middle of the King Stage, which was equivalent to a strong Heaven Soldier.
“Let’s do this.” Hadjar took a deep breath and grabbed his sword tighter. If they wanted him to fight, he would fight so hard that this damned Pit would be left in ruins!
Chapter 342
The beast’s fur fluttered slightly, as if ruffled by a nonexistent wind. Shifting from paw to paw, the emerald wolf lowered its face to the ground and sniffed. Its green gemstone-eyes gazed steadily into the blue eyes of the human standing before it. Then it growled menacingly.
Hadjar lowered his blade, pointing the tip toward the ground. He stood in a relaxed and calm stance. The wolf, still growling, moved around him in a wide arc. Its huge paws, despite supporting several tons of meat and bones, didn’t leave any tracks in the sand, just a thin, emerald fog.
The beast growled even louder. In the wake of its breath, thin emerald needles sprouted from the sand, immediately scattering into dust that sparkled in the light. Hadjar remained still. Moreover, there was no whirlwind of energy around him; power didn’t flow across the ground, and no Sword Spirit could be felt, as if Hadjar was sleeping while standing and with his eyes still open.
The wolf didn’t dare pounce. The beast had once run free through endless forests and had gotten accustomed to even the most dangerous of predators scattering before it. For thousands of years, it had fought for the right to become stronger. And now it was strong. It was at the King Stage and possessed a mind comparable to a human child’s. It simply didn’t understand what was going on. It saw only a small bug standing there, one that it could crush with a single swipe of its claws.
Nevertheless, its instincts stopped it from charging in and sticking its fangs into its enemy’s body. Those same instincts screamed about the danger emanating from the creature which had the scent of the north wind about it.
Green light flashed across the beast’s back. Its mouth opened, and, with a roar, a green mist burst out from it. Surging forward in a wide cone, it covered the sand of the arena, leaving behind an emerald crust.
Hadjar stood still. The nearby pipe rattled, but no warning or order came from it.
Closing his eyes, Hadjar extended his left arm forward. He now understood a little more and could see a little farther. This was enough for the stream of power that surged out from his palm to take on the shape of a barely perceptible blade. It plunged into the ground right in front of Hadjar, and the cone, upon hitting it, broke around it like a wave crashing into a tall stone jutting out of the ground.
Two smaller waves of power rushed past Hadjar. They covered the entire arena, hitting the walls, but didn’t even touch the edges of his clothes.
The beast growled louder still. Drops of saliva fell from its jaws, hissing as they burned and melted the sand. Rising up on its hind legs, the wolf crashed back down on its front paws with great force. The ground shook from the impact and the walls cracked. Stone crumbled down from the distant ceiling.
As the attack landed, emerald needles began to burst out of the ground. They were long and sharp, like spears. They blew up the arena floor, scattering the sand and whistling through the air. Hadjar didn’t so much as blink.
He moved his blade behind his back, adjusted his frayed, old clothes, and, mimicking the wolf, kicked the sand hard. The stream of sword energy entered the ground, and then almost invisible blades appeared out of the sand and rushed toward the emerald spears. Colliding in the center, they clashed against each other. The wolf growled, pushing its paws into the sand. Its fur shone brighter and the number of the spears increased sharply.
Hadjar only grinned and, after tracing a figure eight in the air, thrust his blade into the sand. Now there were more of his swords than the wolf’s spears. Hadjar’s eyes lit up slightly, the sleeping dragon within them unfolded its wings slowly, and a stream of blue energy swirled at Hadjar’s feet. The World River’s power added to the Sword’s power. The blades bursting from the ground immediately became more distinct. They easily cut through the emerald spears. The wolf, a beast with a child’s mind, jumped to the side.
Landing a couple of yards away from the place where the sand had been pierced by the blades, it looked at its right paw. A trickle of flickering, greenish blood was flowing down it. For the first time in decades, someone had managed to injure it. The beast’s eyes were clouded with the bloody veil of the hunting instincts it had inherited from its ancestors. It opened its mouth to release a horizontal tornado of green flame.
“Calm Wind,” Hadjar said, assuming the second stance of the ‘Light Breeze’ Sword Technique.
A stream of wind came down around Hadjar like a wall. The sand was compacted by it, becoming denser than paving stones. The stream of green fire struck the wall of wind and crumbled, making the wall hiss and melt. Apparently, it wasn’t a fire, but a type of acid.
The wolf didn’t stop. It slashed forward several times, hurling dozens of green crescents from its claws. Cutting through the space between them, they rained down upon Hadjar’s defenses. The warrior didn’t change his stance and calmly watched the wall of wind cracking and crumbling. He had wondered how much stronger he’d gotten after the battle for the caravan. With every second he spent battling the beast, he understood that he had to become even stronger.
Hadjar swung his blade with an inhuman roar and cried out: “Strong Wind!”
A tsunami burst forth from behind Hadjar as he swung, and in it
s depths, a ghostly dragon danced back and forth restlessly. A wave of cutting wind smashed through and scattered the emerald crescents and then struck the wolf. It threw back its head, howled, and a green sphere flashed into existence around it. It shook and crumpled, but withstood the Technique’s might.
The wolf, after spending almost all its energy on defending itself, was too exhausted to notice that its foe had turned into the Six Ravens’ shadow. Disappearing in a blur of movement, he reappeared next to the beast a moment later. Compared to this mountain of muscles and fur, Mountain Wind looked like a toothpick. However, it was all Hadjar needed to end this.
By the time the tsunami finally spent itself against the green dome and the wolf tried to locate its enemy, it was already too late. Swirling patches of black fog appeared around his blade and Hadjar attacked, crying out: “Spring Wind!”
His lunge, reinforced several times over by Traves’ Technique, turned into a long, black ribbon that seemed to surge through the air and then pierced the wolf’s chest.
Turning into the Ravens’ shadow again, Hadjar put some distance between him and the wolf and returned to the spot where he’d been at the beginning of the battle. It took him less time than it took an average person to clench their fist.
The beast, which didn’t yet realize what had happened, decided to try and beat Hadjar in melee. It tensed its hind legs and blurred into an emerald thread, jumping forward, but fell to the ground with a roar.
Its body, driven by sheer inertia, leaving a trail of green blood behind, slid across the floor until it was stopped by Hadjar’s foot. He looked into the beast’s glassy eyes. The wolf was dead, but not even the barest hint of regret could be seen in its eyes. It had devoted its whole life to the struggle and then died in battle. It was the destiny of anyone who followed the path of cultivation and power.
Hadjar didn’t think about cutting out the beast’s core, although he wouldn’t have refused a King’s core. A few months had passed since he’d found something like this in Brom’s hidden casket and he’d been mad with joy at the time. Back in those ‘distant’ times, it had seemed like something unattainable to him. Admittedly, Brom had had the core of a King at the high point of the Stage, which was equal in power to a Heaven Knight.
“Good work, Northerner,” came from the huge arch from which the beast had entered.
A group of people wearing scarlet caftans and yellow turbans stepped out onto the sand of the arena. They hurried to clear away the sand and collect blood, emerald dust, fangs, and fur from the wolf and store them in test tubes and bottles.
Among the Scholars, or whatever they were, stood Karissa. Armed with a long, curved dagger, she climbed up the beast’s side and began to cut out its core.
A man came up to Hadjar. He was tall and slim, with multicolored eyes, brown and gray, a little crooked nose, and an equally crooked smile. A large topaz glittered in his yellow turban.
“Principal Researcher Paris,” he introduced himself and saluted in the local manner.
“Hadjar Darkhan.”
“Desert Wind Blowing from the North,” the Scholar said, looking at the Bedouin tattoo on Hadjar’s arm. “A good name. Ancient.”
“I’ve already heard that,” Hadjar answered without rudeness.
“Of course,” the Scholar nodded. He looked around, gave several orders, and turned back to Hadjar. “Follow me, Northerner. I need to measure the level of your talent.”
“Measure the level of my talent?”
Hadjar drew back in hesitation at the wording.
“Don’t worry,” Paris waved his hand dismissively, “it’s an absolutely painless and quick procedure. It’s done in every school, clan, or sect in the Empire. Besides, you’ll have to wait a long time for your friend. The servants have to clean up here, then prepare the next beast... Let’s go do something productive.”
Hadjar, after glancing at the arch he’d come from, followed Paris.
Chapter 343
The tunnel that the monsters came out of looked like a city sewer after a week of artillery bombardment, if there’d been claws, fangs, needles, and acid sacs tied to the shells. The aura left behind by the animals had accumulated in the stones and would’ve made any weak practitioner tremble and cover, drenched in icy sweat.
Hadjar didn’t feel anything like that, but Paris was clearly warding such a feeling off with the help of an amulet glowing with a faint light. These kinds of artifacts looked like strips of red paper with magical signs, runes, and hieroglyphs written on them in black ink.
“I still don’t understand why they had to build the entrance to the laboratory here,” the Principal Researcher shrugged.
They’d just started walking through the tunnel, but sweat was already flowing down Paris’ forehead. At the same time, Hadjar felt the Scholar emanating power that was no less than a true cultivator’s might. Such a contrast immediately intrigued him and made him wonder what this so-called ‘true path’ of cultivation was... and if it was even ‘true’ to begin with?
They climbed up a spiral staircase for a quarter of an hour. During the climb, Paris began to look even worse and was out of breath by the end! Hadjar couldn’t understand it. Even the weakest practitioner could’ve run up and down these stairs for at least an hour before they felt the first signs of fatigue. Knowing that, even if he asked his question, he still wouldn’t get an answer, Hadjar continued to walk in silence.
Finally, they reached a very busy floor. People were scurrying from room to room, holding huge scrolls or tablets in their hands. Someone was screaming and giving orders. Most of the people present were wearing glasses. That was also weird: practitioners’ eyesight always improved. Over the course of his entire life in this world, Hadjar had never met people who wore glasses before now.
“Is all of this new to you, Northerner?” Paris spoke with great difficulty, breathing heavily and rubbing his face with a handkerchief. “I’ve heard that the northern kingdoms have forgotten the true path of cultivation.”
“And, of course, you won’t tell me anything about it.”
Paris just spread his hands helplessly.
“Don’t think that I don’t want to. Don’t you dare think that I intend to treat you like a slave. In our city, that kind of infection was removed a long time ago. Alas, only the Sage can teach you properly.”
Paris put his hand on Hadjar’s shoulder so that he wouldn’t try to turn in the wrong direction. Apparently, Paris didn’t want to say things out loud. Or maybe this was also knowledge that only the Sage could provide. Right now, even someone mouthing the words ‘the true path’ could’ve driven Hadjar crazy.
“If there is no slavery down here, then what is this?” Hadjar pointed at his blue amulet.
“A precaution,” Paris shrugged. “Our city is hidden for a reason, Northerner. By the way, for a stranger, your mastery of the desert language is very impressive. Do you have a good ear for music by any chance?”
Hadjar realized that the Researcher wanted to change the subject. The northerner still wanted to find out some things about this place, but didn’t press the issue.
“Once upon a time, I made a living by playing the Ron’Jah.”
“The Ron’Jah? That’s a string instrument from the northern kingdoms, isn’t it? I only heard it played once when I traveled through the Sea of Sand and ran into a caravan.” Paris suddenly rummaged through his pockets and fished out a simple stone die. “Here you are. This is a pass to my area. Come visit me tonight. I have a collection of musical instruments, and among them is an old Ron’Jah. We’ll drink tea or wine, smoke a hookah, listen to music, and talk.”
As befits a desert dweller, after extending his invitation, Paris saluted: he put two fingers to his lips, then to his heart, then to his forehead, and finally, he ‘sent’ a kiss to the sky. Or rather, to the stars.
“Wait, Karissa said that we could go wherever we wished,” Hadjar said, but he still took the die.
“Sure you can, but you won�
�t be let in everywhere,” the Researcher almost winked as he said it. “Follow me.”
They arrived at a darkened room, the entrance to which was covered by a mat that served as a door. Hadjar suddenly realized that it was much stuffier and hotter here than in the rest of the building. There was a low stela inside, made from red, monolithic stone covered in hieroglyphs that Hadjar had never seen before. At first, it seemed like it was just a simple inscription, but the more he peered at the letters, the more clearly he understood that he might get lost in them, so complex and skillfully arranged they were. The man who’d created this had definitely been at a much higher level than a mere Spirit Knight.
“Just don’t try to look too closely at its energy,” Paris warned, “unless, of course, you want to suffer from a terrible migraine for the next couple of weeks.”
Hadjar just nodded abruptly. He’d once looked at the spatial ring and was no longer eager to repeat that kind of unpleasant experience.
“What is it?”
Paris went over to the stone and pulled out a small, golden bowl. Apparently, he had been in here so often that the artifact didn’t make him feel much trepidation or admiration.
“It’s a Soul Stone. It helps us measure a person’s talent. Not flawlessly, of course, but it’s quite commonly used, even the Imperial legions accept new recruits only after they’ve been checked by one.”
“But where does it come from? Who creates these stones for the Empire?”
“Well, certainly not the Imperials themselves,” Paris snorted. “Even if Lords do roam their lands, they can’t create such splendor with just their power.”
“Lords?” Hadjar asked.
Paris turned to him and tilted his head curiously.
“Well, you didn’t think that the level of Spirit Knight was the finish line of the cultivation path, did you?”
Hadjar didn’t answer. To be completely honest, he’d believed that, after the Spirit Knight level was reached, by employing some insanely complex and difficult method, a person could then become an Immortal. He’d never even heard about the Lord level.
Dragon Heart Page 5
