Dragon Heart: Land of The Enemy. LitRPG Wuxia Series: Book 8

by Kirill Klevanski

  For a long moment, the Minister simply stared at the monument.

  “Stand up,” he said thoughtfully.

  “Thank you, Minister Ju. Thank you. Thank you.” The rider repeated three times, still on his knees. Only then did he get to his feet and step aside.

  Ju came closer to the crystal and placed his hands on it. He spread his fingers, which were topped with thick, yellow claws, and watched as a small light flickered faintly between them.

  “How is this possible, Minister Ju?” The servant standing behind the Minister dared to ask. “Didn’t that tribe die out in a cataclysm many eras ago?”

  The Minister looked at his servant and suddenly smiled broadly.

  “What a pity, Chargoo!” He said, still smiling. “What a pity that, on your way to me, you ran into a pack of red wolves and I didn’t manage to save you.”

  “Wh-”

  A mask of terror froze on the servant’s face and the glimmer of realization quickly faded from his eyes — he would never get to embrace his son and beloved wife again.

  Flickering blood filled the air and a corpse fell to the ground, torn to bloody pieces. A wedding band fell from Chargoo’s wrist and landed at the Minister’s feet. The dragon-man shoved it aside with a grimace of disgust. He licked the blood off his claws and turned back to the monument as if nothing had happened.

  “This means that the ‘Path Through the Clouds’ Technique wasn’t lost,” the Minister’s smile turned from joyous to frighteningly bloodthirsty. “Well, I’m sure everything will be fine if the Emperor receives these wonderful news later... In a couple of years… Meanwhile, I’ll have plenty of time to find this prodigal dragon and take the Technique from them.”

  Laughing, the Minister waved his hand and hid the huge crystal in his spatial artifact, disappearing soon after.

  The valley grew quiet. Instead of a once large, vibrant mountain, several muddy hills were now spread out in its center.

  Chapter 673

  H adjar was in the depths of his soul, in the illusory world where the Black Blade, the dragon of his Call, and the Sword Spirit’s mark resided. Usually, he came here to fight the mark, so as soon as Hadjar appeared in the dark, it flashed with a bright light, ready to defend itself.

  “Don’t worry, I haven’t come for you today,” Hadjar grinned.

  According to his neural network, it would take at least two and a half years to destroy the Sword’s mark. It would all depend on what difficulties the computer module faced in the process. Even so, it was fifty times faster than what Hadjar would’ve been able to manage on his own. He felt-

  “No time for that!” Hadjar snarled.

  This was the wrong time to be wondering if he was exchanging one yoke for another — the yoke of the Sword Spirit for the yoke of the computing module. He could ponder that later.

  Today, he had come here for a different purpose — to become stronger. The ‘Path Through the Clouds’ Technique, which allowed a cultivator to fly when they reached the Spirit Knight level, was truly amazing.

  At first, thanks to the special methods and ingredients involved, it allowed a cultivator to expand their channels and nodes, which made them significantly stronger. The root of a thousand-year-old fern made their energy body and Core stronger and allowed them to absorb energy directly from the World River. Hadjar had never heard of such a method being practiced, or even discussed, in Lascan or Darnassus.

  An ounce of Celestial Metal, the third of the six most important ingredients, was needed to strengthen his soul. It was supposed to be used along with the pollen collected from a three-hundred-year-old four-leaf clover. The scroll had said that the metal was intended to strengthen one’s soul so that it ‘could withstand even the most terrible of thunderstorms and the fiercest of celestial storms’. And the pollen ‘would lighten the soul weighed down by mortal sins until it was as ephemeral as a wandering dream’. Apparently, the dragon who’d created the Technique had been a bit of a poet.

  Hadjar immediately started training with the ounce of molten Celestial Metal he’d collected. According to the scroll, Hadjar had to meditate, adjusting himself until there was only harmony, and then put his channels and nodes in order. He had to circulate the current of energy in a special, complicated way. Only after he’d done all of that, collecting the droplets that had gone through several cycles of circulation, and with the help of his willpower, could he gradually mold them into the desired shape. It was difficult to estimate how long that would take, but time was definitely the most critical factor right now.

  The molten Celestial Metal had poisonous properties. Hadjar now understood why Dora and the siblings had been so intimidated by its presence at the foot of Greven’Dor. After cycling the metal through his physical and energy bodies, then pouring it into his soul, Hadjar had felt the full brunt of its decomposing properties. Unlike other poisons or corrosive acids, for example, it didn’t seek to destroy one’s flesh, blood, or energy structures, but the soul itself. And it was that very soul that remained the most unexplored part of the path of cultivation. Along with the concept of a Name, it had kept many secrets, even from the wisest Masters and Mentors of the great Schools of Lascan and Darnassus. Everyone was well aware of the existence of these two entities, but, since they knew so little about them, they simply ignored them. That practice had once seemed normal to Hadjar, but now he realized how stupid it was to ignore the existence of the soul. Of course, millions of mortals lived like that, but Hadjar wasn’t a mortal, or even just a practitioner. He was a cultivator of martial arts, part of a world that was beyond the comprehension of the average layman.

  Restraining the destructive influence of the metal with his willpower, Hadjar formed a hammer in his right hand. Not a warhammer like Dora’s, but a simple blacksmithing one. Created from the energy filtered out according to the instructions of the ‘Path through the Clouds’ Technique, it hovered in the dark. Soon enough, an anvil appeared beneath it. The threads of molten metal, having passed through his body, gathered together on it. They gradually formed a tiny drop that nonetheless contained a truly savage lethality.

  “Let’s get started,” Hadjar whispered.

  In the physical world, he was sweating profusely, and inside the illusory world of his soul, his Self was shaking and flickering. The tension was so high that Hadjar was afraid he might get kicked out of this mysterious place. That would signal only one thing — his imminent demise. If he left an ounce of the metal inside his soul without containing it within a dome of his willpower, he would be exposed to its corrupting properties. It would then take less than a second for Hadjar’s soul to burn up in the fumes of the Celestial Metal. Perhaps this was the reason why this reagent wasn’t even used by assassins. It would kill an assassin long before their victim.

  According to the Technique described in the scroll, he had to forge a needle from the drop of metal, which would then be inserted into his soul. This thin needle would later develop into something resembling a chainmail network that would protect the host’s soul. It was like using a drop of poison to gain an immunity to it.

  Raising the hammer over the drop, Hadjar was about to strike it, when suddenly, his hand froze. He first looked at the drop, which was trying to destroy the dome of willpower, and then at the dragon of his Call. Or rather, at the tattoo that shone on his chest. The dragon itself, at that moment, having already left his soul, was in the physical world, assuming the form of the black cloak and armor.

  “Why not?” He asked himself.

  A smile spread across his face, the one that had earned him the nickname of ‘Mad General’ so long ago. He called the dragon back from the physical world and into his soul once more. He felt as if a ton of ice had suddenly fallen on him.

  Only then did Hadjar land the first blow on the drop. In the physical world, without the protection of his Call, he was surrounded only by the Sword’s mysteries. He was sitting in the lotus position, dripping with sweat and blood, balancing on a thin rope that hung
over a chasm many miles deep, absolutely motionless.

  Inside his soul, he forged the drop. He didn’t make a needle out of it, deviating from the method described in the scroll. Once, back when he’d been a General, he had seen blacksmiths working on armor, and had tried to master the basics of the profession. Now, years later, having reached the level of a true cultivator, he could finally apply those skills. He didn’t forge a needle, but something different. Sparks flew through the darkness. The ringing echoed. The dragon, frozen in the darkness, watched it all happen.

  Hadjar stopped. He looked at the drop, then at the dragon, which had grown to be almost six feet long.

  “Not enough,” Hadjar decided, flashing a mad grin.

  Back in the physical world, his companions started whispering.

  Chapter 674

  ”H adjar Dakhan, the Mad General who rebels against the Heavens themselves.” Anise whispered.

  As she’d collected information about this strange swordsman who wore orc feathers and Bedouin ornaments in his hair, spoke several rare languages, and was decorated with strange tattoos, Anise had come across something that hadn’t drawn her attention at first. What could a disciple of ‘The Holy Sky’ School possibly have in common with some traitor General from a provincial Kingdom of the Empire? But the further she’d delved into the story of the Mad General, the more similarities she’d found.

  She didn’t recall a song about a traitor who’d killed his own uncle and almost killed his sister, but an epic about a hero who’d decided to sacrifice everything to bring peace to his homeland, who’d left his home, driven by revenge, who’d tried to understand how justice differed from it, who’d wanted to make the gods answer for all the sins they had committed. The epic of the Mad General whose courage knew no bounds, who fought against monsters others were afraid of, not because he was just another power-hungry brat, but because there was no one else but him who could do it, which meant he had to step up. The Mad General who’d decided that there was no one else but him who could rebel against the Heavens… It was a stupid, naïve, but oh so beautiful epic.

  It had a strange, long title: “The epic of the Mad General who rebelled against the Heavens, the madman who went searching for his own death. Anise only liked the first half of that title.

  “Is he insane?” Dora asked, recovering from her shock. “Okay, so, he condensed one ounce of Celestial Metal for some reason, but… why did he condense one more?”

  “Islander, your friend seems to be trying to commit suicide,” Tom was rather annoyed.

  Einen understood his anger — it was much safer to search for the tomb and travel to Greven’Dor in a group of five. Their chances of survival were greater.

  “What the-”

  “Idiot!”

  Right before their very eyes, something incredible that went against everything they knew about the path of cultivation and meditation Techniques was happening. Somehow surviving amidst the fumes of the molten Celestial Metal, Hadjar was continuing to condense more and more drops of the metal, which would then instantly disappear into his body. They slithered like silver snakes through his veins, then disappeared into his solar plexus, where the Core and the main node were located, forming the so-called gateway to the energy body.

  Hadjar didn’t hear them. He was under tremendous strain, holding on only thanks to his immense willpower. Perhaps there were other ways for him to become stronger that were much simpler and safer. However, he’d already chosen such a simple path once before. He’d made a mistake back then, and he was still suffering the consequences of that choice.

  The Spirit Sword’s mark was still with him. It served as a living reminder that a warrior didn’t often get to do what they wanted, and more often than not had to do what was necessary. It was the only way to really become stronger.

  And so, Hadjar did what he had to do. He had to become stronger. That was why his hammer struck the ever-growing drop of Celestial Metal tirelessly, over and over. It changed, gradually assuming the form Hadjar needed from it —turning into clear, smooth, wavy lines that formed a pattern that looked similar to horse armor. Hadjar sometimes fed bits of the metal to the dragon of his Call. He put all the power, will, and the mysteries of the Sword he could muster into each blow.

  In addition to all of that, he tried to add his understanding of his own path to the process as well, his grasp of why he was fighting.

  Holding the hammer, Hadjar didn’t notice when the scarlet tattoo began to glow brighter. It had been created by the Bedouin shaman and had grown thanks to the orc shaman. The tattoo now came to life. Its radiance, fading from his arm, poured into the hammer. Scarlet sparks now illuminated the darkness, joining the silver ones. Ten drops, twenty drops, thirty, forty, fifty… Hadjar didn’t stop. He overcame all conceivable limits. No one would’ve believed that a mere Heaven Soldier could survive so long with the Celestial Metal inside their very soul.

  His hammer finally stopped when 99 drops formed a frame on the anvil.

  “Please, try it on.” Hadjar was breathing heavily. Everything around him was dim. He was completely exhausted, both physically and mentally. But even so, he was still conscious, not allowing himself to embrace the longed-for oblivion. Not yet...

  The dragon, responding to his offer, darted past Hadjar. It ducked inside the frame. As soon as its black scales touched the metal, it spread across them, disappearing into the dragon’s flesh and then reappearing as a silvery pattern all along its skin, which was as sharp as a sword and as smooth as the flight of a bird.

  Back in the physical world, a roar filled the chasm. No human could’ve made such a noise. The others, standing on the edge of the invisible bridge of energy, saw two eyes with vertical pupils and massive claws appear above Hadjar. The vision, flickering there for just a moment, was immediately dispelled by the wind. Hadjar, rising to his feet, was once again wrapped in his Call, which had changed. It bore a complicated silver pattern now. But the most significant changes had affected the cloak. It now had wide, silver edges and a circle in the center, within which a coat of arms could easily be discerned — a simple hieroglyph that spelled out the word ‘Staircase’ made out of scarlet clouds. It was a kind of rebus that depicted a staircase of clouds leading up to the sky.

  “That’s… That’s-”

  “The peak stage of the Heaven Soldier level,” Einen nodded, his purple eyes radiating genuine joy.

  Hadjar, now enveloped in his altered Call, calmly crossed the remaining distance and stopped on the other side of the bridge. He turned, smiled broadly, and asked:

  “How long do you plan to just stand there?”

  Chapter 675

  E inen was the first to recover. He watched his friend with wide eyes, smiling broadly.

  “You really are a mad barbarian,” he laughed.

  Before the aristocrats could say anything, he tied the end of the safety rope around his waist. Sheathing his spear-staff across his back, he moved toward Hadjar. Just like it had done to his friend, the cold began trying to shackle him, but he still kept moving toward his goal. It took him two hours to reach the other side, including a half-hour delay above the fumes of the molten Celestial Metal.

  Tom went next. He also tied the rope around his waist, but didn’t throw it to Einen or Hadjar, which would’ve been the logical thing to do, but to his sister instead. Even with oaths to rely on, it was difficult for cultivators to trust each other. Tom got across a little faster than Einen had.

  “I would suggest cutting the rope.” Einen whispered.

  Hadjar smiled.

  “Alas, he has the map,” he replied, as if he were really considering the possibility. And he had considered it. But it had only been a moment of weakness, common to all humans, regardless of whether they were cultivators or mortals.

  Tom spent an hour and fifty minutes crossing the invisible bridge.

  Dora came next, and she also left the other end of her rope with Anise. The elf girl crossed even faster than Tom —
it took her only an hour and a half.

  Anise went last. To her, the ordeal was like a simple walk and took her less than an hour.

  As a result, by the time everyone gathered on the opposite side of the bridge, the sun was already setting behind the western mountain ranges.

  “What did you take?” Hadjar asked Dora.

  As the three nobles had been crossing the gap, Einen and Hadjar had meditated, but before that, Hadjar had seen Dora give some sort of potion to everyone, including Einen.

  “The Water of the Flaming Soul,” the elf replied. “One of the few potions that can strengthen the soul.”

  Hadjar vaguely recalled that potion. He’d heard about it near the Hall of Fame. The Imperial alchemists used the Water of the Flaming Soul to work with Celestial Metal.

  “Shall we get going?” Tom took his scabbard out of his spatial artifact and tied it to his belt. “Or do you want to continue your little chat?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he led them the rest of the way across the invisible energy bridge. It looked like a solid ribbon of energy when viewed through the World River. Anise and Dora, after glancing at the two friends, followed him. Hadjar and Einen brought up the rear.

  Apparently, the nobles thought that if the commoner duo had wanted to do them any harm, they would’ve cut the rope. Moreover, right now, as they approached the main entrance to the castle — which looked like it was guarded by two stone warriors with crossed swords — it would be stupid to take any unnecessary risks.

  “What do you think they were actually sent here for?” Hadjar asked in the language of the Islands.

  They walked across the bridge. The wind brought snow with it. The bald islander looked a little strange among the snowcapped mountains.

  “I don’t know.”

  Einen shivered despite being wrapped up snugly in his white fur coat. They weren’t wasting any energy on fighting the cold as no one knew when they might be in danger, and so, they needed to conserve every sliver of power they had.