Stone Will

by Kirill Klevanski

  He watched as Primus’ hand slowly moved toward the King’s neck. Slowly, but with the inevitability of an executioner’s ax.

  He saw that the King had raised his sword to defend himself, and how it crumbled under the might of the black wind.

  He saw blood coat the walls, the leather strap falling to the floor. With a metallic clinking, the inserts rolled along the now scarlet painted boards. Witnessing this, Hadjar felt something break inside him.

  “Stop, Your Majesty!” Elizabeth’s personal bodyguards appeared ahead. As a matter of fact, all of them were females.

  The Queen let out a sigh of relief and stopped, but a moment later, she was cursing the fact she couldn’t take out her sword without letting go of one of the children.

  The warriors didn’t lower their weapons.

  They looked at their Queen, their spears and shields held at the ready.

  “Please, don’t make us do this,” the lead bodyguard almost begged her.

  “What did he promise you?”

  “Please…”

  “What did he promise you?!” Elizabeth snarled at them.

  Her green eyes burned with a mad rage and despair. Behind her, through the magical seals superimposed on the secret door, soldiers were already making their way through.

  “That we’ll be able to become stronger,” one of the bodyguards said with mild anger coloring his tone.

  “Stronger... Damn the world of martial arts! It turns animals into humans and humans into animals.”

  “That’s enough, my Queen. Give it up.”

  A thunderbolt struck somewhere behind them. Or so it seemed to Hadjar. In reality, Primus had hit the wall with his black wind.

  “How long do you think you can elude me, Elizabeth?!” He laughed, moving ahead of the soldiers, now wearing green armor.

  The Queen’s warriors stood in front of them—all of the fighters she’d personally selected. Behind them were the Empire’s soldiers, their curved blades out. Her Majesty stood, paralyzed by indecision. At that moment, Elizabeth was no longer a cultivator or the ruler of a kingdom. She was a mother, and she didn’t know which of her children she should put down in order to use her sword.

  “Run, mom!” Hadjar shouted.

  He wriggled out of Elizabeth’s grip. Grabbing his ceremonial sword, which was tied to his belt and too big to be practical, he rushed toward the warriors. They were clearly weaker than the Imperials. In addition, they didn’t have a Heaven Soldier with them.

  “Hadjar!” Elizabeth roared like a wounded beast, but it was too late.

  The Prince slid under the lead bodyguard’s spear. What level of cultivation had she achieved? The Bodily Rivers? Maybe the Formation? Possibly the Transformation?

  Hadjar didn’t care. He had a sword. Uselessly ceremonial or not, he could wield it. The east wind called to him, and his eyes saw the target.

  His heart pounding wildly, he called upon his mastery of the sword and swung the blade.

  A barely visible strike answered his call. He bypassed her shield, angled himself toward the bodyguard, and sliced through the unprotected, narrow strip of skin between the bib of the helmet and the helmet itself.

  The heavy helmet fell to the ground, and a moment after it, painting the floor and walls red fell the warrior. An expression of extreme surprise would forever remain in her glassy eyes.

  Not paying any attention to the fact that he’d killed someone, Hadjar continued his crazy, desperate dance. He dived under the spear of the nearest warrior. She’d already recovered from her initial shock and was about to hit the Prince with her shield, but he was faster.

  Despite her experience, despite surviving hundreds of deadly fights, she was helpless against Hadjar’s talent and fury. He moved as elegantly as a swan across a lake, only needing to swing once.

  He flicked his wrist and cut the bodyguard’s forearm tendon.

  She dropped the shield with a crash, and Hadjar, pushing off of it, soared into the air. He flew over the warrior’s head, his blade moving so fast it left an afterimage in its wake.

  Another body fell behind him, but the remaining bodyguards had managed to snap out of it.

  Seven of them rushed in to attack him. They attacked from all sides, forgetting that they were trying to kill the Prince, not a ferocious tiger cub.

  Hadjar jumped. His legs were strong and his body felt light.

  He rose into the air again, evading all seven spears. Bouncing off of the spear tips, he once more swung his sword, and a ghostly strike from his blade found its target, going through the eye slits.

  Another crimson spray of blood followed. The blinded warrior cried out.

  Hadjar landed behind her and used her kneeling body to block several attacks.

  Instead of hitting him, their spears embedded themselves in the body of their ally.

  Despite how much had happened, all of it took only a couple of seconds. In fact, Hadjar had been moving so quickly that he’d been leaving behind black and gold colored, ghostly silhouettes. A seven-year-old boy managed to kill three experienced practitioners of martial arts with only four strokes of the sword.

  “Hadjar!”

  The familiar voice tore Hadjar out of his rage and fear-induced trance.

  He turned around.

  The ceremonial sword fell from his exhausted hands.

  There was a lump in his throat.

  Heavy, salty tears rolled down his cheeks.

  “Hadjar…” A palm, shrouded in the black wind, had been thrust through the Queen’s chest. He could see it grasping something red and twitching.

  The unconscious Elaine lay on the floor. She looked so small and fragile. Her hair covered her body like a thin, golden blanket.

  Elizabeth took a step forward. Her clothes were soaked in blood. Her green eyes grew dim, and a weariness that made her seem older settled over her.

  “Mother!”

  Hadjar ran up and embraced the fallen Queen.

  “Promise me…”

  At that moment, all the Prince could manage was to hold onto his mother tightly. He had no idea what was going on. His mind refused to accept reality.

  “Promise me that you will never... enter the world... of martial arts.” Elizabeth’s body trembled as she awkwardly kissed her son on the cheek, and her last words were uttered with a sigh: “It brings only misfortune...”

  Hadjar looked at his hands, covered in the blood of his mother.

  The body of the woman who’d once given him a whole new world meant the whole world to him… now lay at his feet.

  The Prince didn’t remember how it happened, but it seemed that he’d growled and rushed at Primus. He didn’t need his sword—he was ready to sink his teeth into the warlord’s throat. But Primus just grabbed the boy’s neck and lifted him into the air.

  “I would advise you to kill them, Primus,” a dispassionate voice offered.

  “They are my family, Governor.”

  “What about Elizabeth and Haver, then?”

  “That had to happen. The country can’t have two kings.”

  Hadjar clawed at his uncle’s hand, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t even scratch the Heaven Soldier. He didn’t have enough air—strange, alarming sounds filled his head and he started to panic as darkness encroached on his vision.

  “Did you see his swordsmanship, Primus? If he lives, you can never rule in peace.”

  Primus looked at his suffocating nephew. It would be so easy to squeeze his hand and send the boy to be with his father and mother again. And yet, he was his flesh and blood.

  “Then I’ll make sure he never picks up the sword again.”

  Hadjar, if he’d been able to, would’ve been screaming in pain.

  [Host is in critical condition! Irreversible damage has been dealt to the internal organs! The Meridian and Nodes are being destroyed!]

  The Governor watched without any emotion as the black wind tormented the body of the twitching boy. He still didn’t care what the
se cretins did. What mattered was that a steady stream of Solar ore would be sent to the Empire. To be honest, the Solar ore wasn’t that rich, and the metal made from it wasn’t the best, but…

  Resources were very limited in this world and there was a constant struggle for control over them. The metal from the Solar ore was one such resource.

  Maybe if he spent a couple of centuries working on it out here in the sticks, he would get the inspiration he needed for a breakthrough and reach the level of the Spirit Knight.

  The higher the stage of cultivation was, the more valuable resources it required, resources that were harder and harder to find.

  Even while the exhausted son collapsed onto the bloodied corpse of his mother, the Governor could only think about his own future. New horizons had opened up to him thanks to the new King of Lydus—Primus Duran.

  Chapter 13

  “Your supper, your Highness,” the young guard mocked him, then closed the door.

  Hadjar was once again one with the darkness. This cramped stone cell had become his new home. It was designed to ensure that an adult couldn’t lie down or stand up straight. Hadjar was lucky in that regard—thanks to his small size, he was quite ‘comfortable’ in its confines.

  He’d already spent a month locked up and what’s worse—there was no information in the neuronet’s database on how to fix the damage he’d received. Primus had destroyed the very foundation for his cultivation.

  The damn Warlord had burned all the meridians in his body and destroyed all the nodes as well. The Prince, although he was no longer a Prince… Hadjar could still feel the energy in the air, but he couldn’t harness it.

  Besides…

  Hadjar crawled to the bucket of dirty water, not trusting the wooden stumps that now served as his legs. A loaf of moldy bread sat beside it.

  A beam of light made its way up to the ceiling through a small hole.

  Hadjar positioned himself above the bucket and looked at his reflection.

  He’d used to think that he was lucky, having great parents he’d inherited good genes from. He’d been a handsome and dignified boy. Now, however…

  A face covered in scabs and sores looked back at him. The right eyelid was swollen, covering the eye almost completely. His head was almost bald and his trembling hands smelled of something rotten and musky.

  Hadjar drank greedily, gulping down close to half of the bucket. He hadn't been fed for three days, so the boy ate the bread as well, despite its disgusting smell and taste.

  Leaning his back against the cold wall, Hadjar looked at the grating. He watched specks of dust spinning in a beam of light.

  The wind was blowing again.

  It didn’t call him anywhere...

  “Duke Velen, Earl Vaslia, Primus, the Governor, Viscount…”

  The musicians played trumpets, the choirs sang hymns, the bells rang—the coronation of the new King of Lidus was in full swing. But the enthusiastic exclamations of the people were absent.

  “Duke Velen, Earl Vaslia, Primus, the Governor, Viscount…”

  The funeral processions were probably being held in the small towns and villages that day. People mourned for the dead King and Queen and threw angry glances in the direction of the capital.

  But none of them dared to take up arms and rebel. No one was foolish enough to try and fight the Imperial soldiers marching along the roads of the country. Their power was far beyond what the ordinary villagers could even imagine.

  The people that had reached the stage of the Bodily Rivers had been great heroes to the common people. And the Imperials surpassed those cultivators in every way.

  “Duke Velen, Earl Vaslia, Primus, the Governor, Viscount…”

  And yet, there was still some hope in the hearts of the citizens.

  Rumors spread.

  Few people believed they were true, but they still told the tale, using the cover of night to escape the notice of the authorities. It was about Prince Hadjar. The Prince was said to have slain ten warriors with his sword, then wounded Primus and the Governor, and after that, he escaped from the Palace.

  “Duke Velen, Earl Vaslia, Primus, the Governor, Viscount…”

  They said that he was now training somewhere in the distant mountains, killing the cruelest, most ferocious animals. He lived in solitude, gaining the kind of power that would make the mountains themselves shudder in terror and the skies above cry from fright.

  People wanted to believe that their suffering under the rule of Primus and the Empire would last no more than nine springs. After all, Prince Hadjar would then be sixteen years old. He would have a legal claim to the throne.

  Peasants and merchants, warriors and artisans, scholars and ordinary citizens alike all believed that the hour would come, that the bell in the ruined Royal castle would ring again. And when that ringing was heard in all the fields and forests of the Kingdom, the army would rally and overthrow Primus.

  They wanted to believe in this comforting, fictional tale. They wanted it more than anything.

  But no one knew the truth. The Prince hadn’t even seen the sky or breathed fresh air for an entire month.

  He could no longer fight anything, neither beasts nor humans.

  No one knew that the Prince’s legs had been cut off below the knee. No one knew that Hadjar had been deprived of any and all opportunities and chances to develop his power.

  But, even now, sitting in a dungeon, crippled, he refused to give up.

  He would find a way out of there. Even if he had to sell his soul to the devil, he would find a cure.

  And he would get justice for his family so they could rest in peace. Even if he had to slaughter every Imperial warrior and every traitor in the Kingdom to do it.

  At that moment, his blue eyes burned with an unyielding, almost palpable light.

  And that’s why Hadjar was muttering, “Duke Velen, Earl Vaslia, Primus, the Governor, Viscount…”

  He repeated the names of the traitors to himself, over and over. There were dozens of them, hundreds, but they’d all pay one day, he didn’t doubt it for a second. Even if the sky itself were to stand in his way, he would go to war against it.

  His name was Hadjar. They’d taken his power, destroyed his sword, cut off his legs. But his will was indomitable, his determination endless. No one could change that, he would not be broken.

  That day, an ancient dragon awoke. He resided in a cave hidden by a waterfall and had been forgotten by all. He was chained down and unable to move, but suddenly, he felt something approaching him from the west.

  Something driven by fate.

  The dragon thought the feeling must be false, only a remnant of its thousand-year sleep. Such a thing might’ve happened ten, twenty, fifty thousand years ago. But no one had come to him for countless centuries of his imprisonment in that cave.

  No one was coming this time, either.

  The dragon only managed to catch a glimpse of two fierce, blue eyes in the reflection of the waterfall.

  ***

  “How much do you want for him?”

  Hadjar awoke not because he’d heard a voice, but because this voice was new. For the past year, he’d only heard the mockery of the guard who would bring him moldy bread and a bucket of grimy water.

  Once a month, when the cell began to stink so much that even the guard couldn’t bear to go in, he would bring him a waste bucket. Then he would ruthlessly beat Hadjar. His warden believed that cleaning up the Half-Prince’s shit was beneath him. That was what he called Hadjar: the Half-Prince.

  “Five gold coins.”

  “Five gold coins?! You’re insane, Lithium.”

  Hadjar’s guard had a really funny name. Lithium. But, alas, except for the prisoner himself, no one could appreciate the humor behind it. There was no periodic table in this world. Even if there was, it would probably have different elements in it.

  “I wish I hadn’t met you last night.”

  “You bought your own ticket to see our freak show,
no one forced you.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “If you hadn’t offended the owner, no one would’ve put you in such an awkward situation.”

  Freak show? Anyone else in Hadjar’s position would’ve been afraid after hearing that, but he only saw a chance at freedom.

  “I owe the owner two gold coins, to pay for the tent I ruined,” the soldier had apparently gotten drunk and made a mess.

  Recently, he would often drink and complain to Hadjar about his life. He’d told the boy about how his wife had left him. She’d abandoned him for a stronger practitioner, a man who’d reached the level of Formation and had attained a high rank in the army of King Primus.

  To be honest, Hadjar was glad to see his tormentor suffering.

  “Look, you’ll give me five coins, I’ll give two coins to your boss, and he’ll pay you a bonus for the freak. It’ll probably be more than five gold coins. We’ll both profit from this!”

  Someone was hesitating behind the door, shifting uneasily from foot to foot.

  “This seems like fraud. And you know what the new laws are like—I’ll lose my hand for this, and you’ll lose your head.”

  “No one will notice if this freak disappears. No one but me has come here for a year.”

  “Who is he?”

  Hadjar only pursed his lips. Wow! He costs five gold coins now. Previously, his right shoe alone had cost a hundred times more. But he didn't care about that—the main thing was to get out of here.

  “The son of a disgraced nobleman,” the soldier lied easily. He’d become so impudent that he was planning to sell the Prince! “His father died long ago and the son’s been completely forgotten.”

  Or he was just a moron.

  “Five coins, you said?”

  “Yep, five.”

  The stranger hesitated a bit more.

  “Let me look at him, first.”

  “Yes, please, go right ahead,” the soldier agreed easily. “Just try not to breathe. The smell is awful in there.”