The numerous buildings made from yellow stone with mahogany overlays didn’t look extravagant, but rather, mystical. The sectarians lived and studied in them. And their scrolls and provisions were kept in the huge, round buildings dotted throughout. The Masters and disciples alike often paced the paths between these buildings.
They only wore black clothing when they went outside of the sect. Inside it, however, they wore regular, yellow clothes. The disciples held not only sickles and scythes in their hands, but also staves, which, along with spears, remained the most common weapon used in the backwoods areas—which were a large portion of both Balium and Lidus’ territory.
“One of the Masters,” Serra held out the telescope to Hadjar.
Looking through the muddy glass, he was able to spot a figure that resembled Simon in some ways—particularly the large potbelly, except that, in addition to an awful lot of fat that it was carrying around, the figure also had powerful, rippling muscles—much like Dogar had once had.
The Master didn’t wear any armor to cover his monstrous belly. Instead, he had only some red material, tucked in at his waist, black, steel kneepads, and a set of shoulder pads. His chest was also covered with six heavy, black spheres.
According to Lergon’s stories, and the intelligence reports Hadjar had received, these spheres indicated the Master’s pavilion number. They were sect shoulder straps.
The Master held a huge, black halberd with an elongated blade in his hand. It seemed as though someone had broken off the blade of a heavy sword and then attached it to a shaft of this special wood.
The neural network, once again demonstrating its limited usefulness, was unable to scan him. This meant that the Master was at the Transformation of the Body stage at least. Or, maybe, the Transformation of the Spirit. Perhaps even the New Soul stage…
“There’s a lot fewer of them than we expected,” Nero whispered when he took the telescope back from Hadjar. “There seem to be only sixteen thousand disciples here, maybe less.”
“Probably more, I’d wager,” Hadjar replied, shaking his head. “Some of them are meditating in solitude, or spending their time in the refectory or the library. But, yes, there are most likely less than twenty-five thousand of them present here.”
“That’s still great,” Nero said, returning the telescope to Serra. “What do you think about the barriers? Can you handle them?”
For some time, the enchantress looked at the huge hieroglyphs that were floating in the sky above the pavilion. Each of them was easily over 70 feet long and 35 feet wide. They looked much more... robust than the ones that had hovered over General Larvie’s castle.
“They’re well-made,” Serra admitted, not taking her eyes off the barriers. “I fear that I won’t be able to successfully do it without making any noise. Also, when I begin, the whole sect will immediately know about our invasion.”
“Don’t you mean the sixth pavilion?”
“No.” She shook her head. “The whole sect, I’m afraid. These spells are connected to each other, much like the silken threads of a spider web. Pull one of these threads and all of them will quiver at once.”
Hadjar cursed inwardly. So, they wouldn’t be able to hide the loss of this pavilion from the rest of the sect, even for a short while. It wasn’t what he’d expected... but it had been foolish of him to believe that their luck would change and finally turn its face toward him, as opposed to its backside.
“Can you rewrite them?” Hadjar asked.
Serra took her time, observing the signs as they circled the pavilion. She was obviously thinking something over. Nero used this time to stare at her ass. Even hidden under the thick fur pants she wore, it still looked fascinating to him.
However, Hadjar was clearly more concerned with the girl’s answer than her figure.
“I will need a week,” she finally said, “give or take a few days. After that, I’ll be able to remake this barrier for myself. After another two weeks, I’ll be able to improve it.”
“Will it stop a Heaven Soldier?” Hadjar asked.
“Of course not. Only my Master would be able to make such an enchantment. At best, I’ll create something that’ll greatly weaken a practitioner at the Transformation of the Spirit Stage. Not stop them, mind you, but weaken.”
Hadjar cursed once again.
“Don’t worry, General,” Serra smiled like a clever thief. “It’s highly unlikely that the sect Patriarch will personally come out to fight against your army. If he did, it would take him centuries to restore the reputation of his sect. And that’s presuming he could even do so at all.”
Hadjar couldn’t argue with that. Recently, the disciples of the sect had tried to influence the masses by spreading the story that General Hadjar was a hungry marauder who had been banished from his own country. They claimed that he was so savage that he hadn’t even honored the rules of hospitality.
These rumors proved more than effective and the inflow of Baliumians joining the Moon Army slowly declined. People could be very gullible when it came to hearing ‘official’ news. Especially when they received said news from ‘different’ sources.
If the Patriarch suddenly descended from his throne and rushed to another part of the mountain range to personally fight the General... Well, it would be a wonderful opportunity for the bards to write new songs, and for the citizens of Balium to mock the sect.
“How much time do you need to work on the barrier?”
“An hour? Maybe two.”
Hadjar nodded. When he got back to camp, he thought about the upcoming battle and sent runners to fetch the commanders. It was time to prepare for another one of their mad operations.
Chapter 108
Thick, heavy snowflakes fell from the sky the following morning. Hadjar was glad to see that the weather was bad this time, though. He currently wore a fur vest over his blue clothes and leather armor. The cold got worse every day, and a mere mortal could die from hypothermia in these mountains if they didn’t dress for it.
Hidden behind a curtain of snow, Hadjar was currently surrounded by ten thousand of his best warriors. Each of them was worth hundreds, if not thousands, of ordinary soldiers. They stood on the plateau and waited for the signal.
Hadjar had to listen to plenty of Simon’s complaints before he was finally able to give the signal to begin the assault.
Serra had used twelve cores from Alpha stage beasts to create her illusion. Such expenses had been incredibly difficult for Simon to agree to, as they went against all his beliefs.
Robin, the hunter from the village in the Valley of Streams had used a similar illusion. Serra, however, had created a kind of talisman instead of just using the cores. A reliable and strong warrior had been entrusted with the responsibility of carrying the bag containing the cores and the talisman to the chosen location.
That same warrior was currently climbing one of the mountain peaks.
Hadjar looked at the small, black dot against the white rocks in the distance, and prayed that the warrior wouldn’t slip and fall into the abyss. Overcoming the snow and heavy gusts of wind, the dot eventually climbed to the mountain’s peak. A moment later, the dot began to grow larger until it turned into a giant figure easily visible to the naked eye. From a distance, the figure looked very similar to Hadjar.
The warriors didn’t hear what the figure said—the howling of the wind among the mountain peaks didn’t let them—but it gave the impression of being something very threatening indeed.
A clear aura and a sense of power emanated from the giant, as if he were a Heaven Soldier. The giant was holding a sword in his hands and a fiery comet rushed toward the barrier after his every swing. It looked like a sword Technique, but it was actually the Alphas’ enchanted cores. As they struck the runes circling in the sky, they exploded with colorful blooms of fire.
It somehow looked both fascinatingly beautiful and chilling at the same time.
Serra fervently channeled her magic on the opposite side of th
e mountains. She sat in a lotus position with dozens of floating talismans dancing around her.
As a result, the illusory figure—already causing a panic among the sectarians— along with Serra, as well as the warriors—waiting for the signal to start the attack—formed a triangle.
Nero shifted from foot to foot next to Hadjar. Wrapped in a fur cloak, with his white hair fluttering in the wind, he resembled a mountain dweller much more than Hadjar did.
Together, they waited for the signal.
When the fifth core struck the barrier, and the Master restored order among his disciples, the giant hieroglyph blinked once. The mountain range seemed to tremble at that moment, but the ten thousand warriors weren’t interested in that.
Hadjar raised his fist in the air as they rushed in to attack the sect. An arch appeared in the shimmering haze of the barrier, and a group of soldiers ready to annihilate their enemy rushed through it.
As one, they followed their fearless General.
They raced through, throwing off their fur cloaks as they moved, inhaling the warm air as they ran. The temperature was so comfortable behind the barrier that they could’ve been lulled to sleep if not for the excitement of battle.
The soldiers charged straight into the backs of the disciples crowded on the opposite side of the site. The warriors were easily able to cut through at least a thousand of their foes at once.
Alas, some of the disciples turned around. Even before the Master felt that something was wrong with the barrier, one of the disciples had called out a warning.
Hadjar gripped his sword more tightly and performed the first stance of the ‘Light Breeze’ Technique as he ran.
He created a 20-foot wide tornado with one strike—just like he’d done in Garnuth. Filled with sharp, ghostly blades, the tornado lifted a dozen disciples of the Bodily River stage into the air. Their bodies never came back down. Only a bloody rain fell on the heads of the warriors fighting below.
The warriors shouted as they fought, crossing swords, axes, spears, staves, and hammers. Flashes of multicolored energies illuminated the battle as lightning circled around ice spears. Gusts of razor-sharp wind collided with stone fists, and fire was fought with lava.
Hundreds of different Techniques all showed their deadly beauty and power at once. And Hadjar was in the middle of it all.
His sharp sword sent opponent after opponent to meet their maker with every slash. His movements were so smooth and fast that it seemed as though the General was hovering above the ground without ever touching it.
One of the older disciples, who exuded the power of the Formation stage, tried to attack him with his heavy staff. The heavy, metal rings nailed to the pommel of the weapon rang, creating balls of scorching hot flame around the weapon with each new movement. The disciple launched the fireballs with every swing of his staff.
Due to their intense heat, they left behind a trail of lava as they flew over the rocks. Hadjar dodged the first two streams of fire. Unfortunately, he wasn’t fighting alone. Two cries sounded and the burnt bodies of soldiers fell to the snowy ground behind him.
Clenching his teeth, Hadjar rushed forward, ignoring the smile creeping across the disciple’s face. The disciple grabbed the middle of his staff and twirled it around himself with incredible speed.
“Peacock’s tail!” The youth cried out.
This time, he didn’t create just one or two fireballs, but a whole myriad of smaller ones instead. They resembled a fiery fan, or, indeed, the tail of a peacock, as they flew toward the General.
However, none of the miniature fireballs reached Hadjar.
The disciple’s smile faded when he saw how incredibly fast the blade of the General’s sword was. Hadjar cut through the fireballs, closing the distance between the pair with each step.
The senior student yelped and tried to back away, but then dropped his staff, never managing to take a single step. Instead, a beam of steel light shot out from Hadjar’s blade and pierced his chest.
The swordsman threw the dead body of his enemy aside with such force that it broke in half. He brought down two disciples armed with kukri as they ran toward him. They didn’t even get a chance to see what had happened. Hadjar merely swung his sword twice and two potent, ghostly blades, visible even to an ordinary mortal, flashed through the air. They flew thirty steps, carving through the ground, and easily bisected the disciples’ bodies. They didn’t even get to use the Techniques they’d studied for dozens of years to perfect.
Hadjar ran farther and farther, getting closer to the buildings, until he heard a bloodcurdling cry split the air.
He turned around and immediately noticed a familiar figure with white hair flying through the air.
Wheezing and spitting out blood, Nero was holding a black blade protruding from his chest. The massive, potbellied Master stood in front of him. As Nero came back down, the Master threw him aside with a simple kick. Nero flew several feet and crashed limply into a rock.
“Nero!” Hadjar shouted, charging the Master.
The sectarian Master pushed away from the ground, causing it to shake, and soared into the air. He lifted his halberd above his head and black energy flashed around its blade.
Ten disciples stood in front of Hadjar. Each of them was ready for battle, but they could only discern a black, misty crow flying above the ground.
Hadjar closed in as fast as he could without being distracted by the pitiful disciples that were attempting to bar his way.
Sparks stung his shoulders, and dark energy pressed against his hands with the force of a hundred blades, but he held firm.
Large drops of blood dripped onto hot stone.
“General!” The Master growled.
He looked even bigger up close. He leaned on his halberd with all his weight, and Hadjar, gritting his teeth, held the blade down with Moon Beam. His barely alive friend was behind him, having difficulty breathing, still slumped against the rock.
Chapter 109
Hadjar pushed his enemy aside forcibly. However, all his efforts were only enough to make the huge Master take two small steps back.
The blade of the Master’s halberd was now moving in a semicircle in the air. Shards of stone soared into the sky, and a gust of wind almost pushed Hadjar aside. A deep groove, not caused by a Technique or strike, but instead a simple gesture, was now between Hadjar and the Master.
Nero groaned behind him.
Sections of his broken armor were lodged in his chest like the jaws of a rabid dog, blood gushed from his wounds, soaking the ground beneath him, and several of his bones were clearly visible. Serra ran to him, not seeing the road beneath her crumble. She threw her talismans, and they flashed and turned into a variety of birds. They attacked—pecking out the enemies’ eyes, ripping out their throats, and literally tearing apart the disciples as they screamed in fear and pain.
“Nero,” she whispered, kneeling before her lover.
After making sure that Nero would be taken care of, Hadjar focused entirely on his foe.
His instincts told him that his opponent was the strongest of all the warriors present at this pavilion. Time seemed to stop, and the battle froze as it always seemed to do before a battle truly commenced between two leaders. The soldiers and sectarians alike paused their fighting, forming a wide circle, in the center of which the Master and the General stood.
The black halberd was behind his broad back, and the sectarian quietly rubbed his enormous belly, mulling over the best way to destroy his enemy.
Hadjar, in his low stance, resembled a predator ready to pounce on its prey.
The scene was somewhat similar to a hungry tiger that was ready to sink its fangs into the gray skin of a slow, fat elephant. However, the elephant wasn’t scared and calmly looked at his opponent as if he were a mere bug that he could squash underfoot with ease.
“They’ll sing songs about me tonight.” The Master spun his halberd, moving it in front of him like a spear.
Hadjar attack
ed in a lunge full of uncontrollable rage, like a dragon that had seen its coveted prey in the sky. His feet left a shallow mark where he was standing. A second later, he swung his blade, shrouded with shadowy energy, down toward the head of the fat man.
A fountain of sparks shot into the sky, the ground trembled under the fighters, and ravine that was nearly a hundred yards wide, similar to the mouth of a volcano, appeared along the side of the mountain.
The Master defended himself against the strike that could’ve easily cut down a dozen soldiers clad in full armor as if he’d been swung at with a simple fly swatter. The halberd in front of him didn’t even waver, and he hadn’t received a single scratch from the impact.
Growling menacingly, the Master turned his body slightly and smashed his shoulder into his enemy’s chest.
All the air was knocked out of Hadjar’s lungs at once, and he slammed into the brick wall of a small house as he was thrown back. The sheer power of the strike had been so great that, a few seconds later, when Hadjar pulled himself out of the brick and wood rubble, he staggered, spitting and wheezing, hardly able to stand.
If it hadn’t been for the Technique that strengthened his body, he would have been broken like a child’s wooden toy.
Thanks to his training, he recovered quickly, still rubbing a hand against his chest, where a black hematoma had already appeared.
“Sturdy.” The Master nodded respectfully.
He raised his halberd above his head and brought it down against the ground. It seemed like this impressive strike would be able to simultaneously destroy the heavens and crush the mountains as well.
A wave of black energy rushed toward Hadjar.
It dug up the ground, crumbled stone, and reduced trees to sawdust.
The spectating soldiers and disciples used their best Techniques simply to defend themselves from the force of the Master’s strike. Some of them coughed up blood and fell to their knees, unable to resist the power of the halberd as they stood at the front of the wide circle of watchers.
Dragon Heart: Iron Will. LitRPG Wuxia Series: Book 2 Page 19
