Dragon Heart: Iron Will. LitRPG Wuxia Series: Book 2 Read online

  By this time, the north wind had already come in, bringing the cold with it. The leaves had fallen from the trees and the grass had turned yellow.

  Hadjar ordered everyone to set up camp, and immediately sent the engineers to the forest. He wasn’t going to rely on good luck and so he’d instructed them to put up barriers. They needed a fence, traps, stakes, ditches, and Serra’s defensive spells. All of it would be used to protect the camp and ensure the army’s safety.

  In addition, even before he’d predicted it would happen, his army had grown to have two and a half million people in it. The Baliumians were now the majority of his forces and this had created a constant tension in the camp.

  Judging by the tents, it was evident just how divided the people of the two Kingdoms were. They mistrusted each other and had every reason to do so.

  “My General,” a bodyguard flew into Hadjar’s tent as he was busy feeding Azrea.

  Hadjar looked away from his pet (if the arrogant kitten could even be called that) and at the soldier. He didn’t see the man’s face, hidden as it was by the man’s heavy helmet, but he could feel the excitement emanating from his subordinate.

  It was quite unusual to see any of his brave bodyguards acting this way.

  “What’s the matter, Greven?”

  “My General, a sect practitioner is approaching the camp.”

  Hadjar sprang to his feet. Mewing with displeasure, Azrea jumped off him and onto the floor, mewed again, and got on the bed in two quick leaps. Curling up after eating a piece of meat, she fell asleep.

  “How many of them are there?” Hadjar took his sword and tied it to his belt. “Tell me! How many?”

  “He’s alone, my General.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  Hadjar frowned. Why has only one sectarian come here? Is ‘The Black Gates’ truly so confident? Although, after millennia of enjoying absolute hegemony over the area, they had every reason to be.

  Running out of the tent, Hadjar sent a runner for Serra and Nero. Soon after, the three of them hurried to the edge of the camp. Several commanders that had also been informed of the sectarian’s arrival joined Hadjar. Lergon was among them. He was wearing full armor and holding his longsword.

  Apparently, heavy weapons like that one were very popular in Balium, as he was the fifth practitioner wielding a similar blade that Hadjar had seen.

  Stopping at the entrance to the camp marked by a hole in the palisade, Hadjar put his hand on the hilt of Moon Beam. Not because he was afraid, but rather, to calm down the others.

  The disciple of ‘The Black Gates’ sect was approaching them, walking along the yellow field. He was wearing the classic black robes with a hood his sect traditionally favored. He had a steel talisman in the shape of an X on his chest, but didn’t have any armor or boots. His only weapon was a scythe, the handle of which had been forged to look like a skull. The shaft, judging from the energy it exuded, had been hewed from a special wood, which was very expensive and rare. So, he was unlikely to be just an ordinary disciple.

  “Bastard!” Lergon growled, shifting his sword from hand to hand.

  Hadjar looked more carefully.

  What had at first seemed like a small and very strange donkey was... actually a human being. The sectarian was riding toward them on the back of a naked, burnt, scarred human. His face had a gray cloth over it which was covered with red runes.

  “I’ll kill him!” Lergon swung his blade.

  “Take the officer away,” Hadjar intercepted the Baliumian’s sword and, in one motion, forced it back into its sheath. “Take him away! Now!”

  The soldiers grabbed Lergon’s arms and dragged him back to camp. The man was still yelling: “I’ll kill you!” even as he was dragged away.

  Hadjar turned back to the sectarian. Gods and demons take his soul, he was smiling! The smile itself wasn’t as scary as what it revealed: an uneven row of teeth which had been honed to a razor sharpness, resembling the maw of a shark. They could easily tear out someone’s throat or bite off a piece of flesh.

  Actually, the body of the human who was being used as a donkey was covered in those kinds of scars.

  Hadjar had at first thought that they were the bite marks of animals, but now he was realizing that... a person had made them.

  “Hello, illustrious General,” the sectarian greeted him.

  As expected, he extended his right fist forward and put his open palm over it.

  Reluctantly, Hadjar did the same. The banal rules of decency were still there. And they didn’t distinguish between enemies or allies and treated everyone equally.

  “Shall we talk?” the sectarian’s voice was soaked in something sticky and dark.

  “Let’s talk,” Hadjar nodded.

  Chapter 104

  The soldiers put a low table covered with a white cloth in front of Hadjar and the sectarian, who were sitting on the grass. They also brought out a clay jug of wine and two wide bowls.

  Hadjar, being the host, poured some of the tart drink for them both.

  The sectarian sat quietly, and his ‘transport’ stood next to him. The human, who had lost his mind long ago, leaned over the ground, pinched the grass, and then licked dew drops off it like a horse.

  “I see that you don’t approve of our methods,” the sectarian said.

  He dropped his hood. Hadjar had expected to see something terrible, but the man had a most ordinary face. If you met him somewhere in a tavern, you’d forget him in a moment—gray eyes, high cheekbones, a low forehead. Nothing special. Well, he had sharpened teeth, but the sectarian skillfully hid them behind his lips. Apparently, it wasn’t the first time he’d negotiated with someone.

  “You use a man as a horse. Why would I approve of that?”

  “As a horse?” the sectarian took the bowl of wine from Hadjar’s hands and drank from it. “Good wine. Is it from the southern plantations of Lidus?”

  Hadjar looked silently at his counterpart. Moon Beam and the black scythe lay beside them. That was also a requirement of etiquette. Those who didn’t observe etiquette, even with their worst enemy, were considered no more civilized than animals in this world. They were never dealt with or regarded as equals.

  Respect and power were the two pillars upon which this world rested.

  “In the mountains, even the best horse breaks its legs on its first day. Mountain goats, for some reason, can’t get past the Awakening of the Mind stage, so we use, as you put it, humans.”

  “How I put it?” Hadjar asked. “Do you think he isn’t a human?”

  “Not a he,” the sectarian sipped more wine, “but an it. You probably think that we’re demons or madmen, but we aren’t. For thousands of years, ‘The Black Gates’ sect has existed. For thousands of years, two mighty serpents have kept our peace. For thousands of years, the statue of our Patriarch has stared at the horizon.”

  “That’s very informative,” Hadjar nodded and pointed behind him. “For two months, I’ve been the General of this army. In two months, I’ll break down your gates. In two months, I’ll make a new belt for myself out of your serpents. In two months, the statue of your Patriarch will be looking at the darkest and deepest crevice in these gods-forsaken mountains.”

  For some time, he and the sectarian just stared at each other until his guest started laughing. He laughed hysterically, exposing his sharpened teeth.

  “I’ve heard about your daring adventures, but your sense of humor is quite legendary as well, General Hadjar.”

  “You know my name, but I’m afraid I don’t know yours.”

  The sectarian drank some more wine.

  “Oh, please forgive me for my rudeness,” after wiping his lips, he put his bowl back on the table. “I’m Meryl. The chief guard of the sixth pavilion of ‘The Black Gates’ sect.”

  Hadjar nodded.

  The sect had several pavilions. Their numbers were issued according to how far they were from the organization’s center. The farther away fr
om it a pavilion was, the weaker its sectarians were. The sixth one was the weakest among them. And its chief guard was the weakest among the leaders of the sect.

  Nevertheless, Hadjar could feel the power emanating from him. A power that was much stronger than his own.

  This was further confirmed by the neuronet. Once again, it showed “??????” instead of any data.

  Name

  Meryl

  Level of cultivation

  ???

  Strength

  ???

  Dexterity

  ???

  Physique

  ???

  Energy points

  ~1.6

  “Let’s get back to the beginning of our conversation,” Meryl took the bowl and poured himself some more wine, “we take mere mortals and give them the opportunity to become ordinary disciples. If they fail the exam, we turn them into mounts. They are fed well and kept busy, and we can move around the mountains comfortably. Of course, we have to spend some ingredients on them, but, believe me, they’re worth it. If we make a deal, maybe I’ll give you ten thousand of these ‘horses’. With their help, you’ll get to our gates, which you so desperately want to destroy, much more quickly.”

  Hadjar looked at the creature that had once been a human. He, or it, was still grazing peacefully. The wind was playing with the gray cloth covering its face.

  It was a terrible and deeply unsettling sight.

  “What do they need to do to pass the exam?”

  “The same as anyone who wants to join our ranks—reach the eighth stage of the Bodily Rivers by the time they’re sixteen years old.”

  “You do understand that an ordinary mortal can’t possibly do this by the age of sixteen, don’t you?”

  Suddenly, the sectarian smiled widely and carnivorously. For a moment, his real face shone through. It didn’t have any of the courtesy that he’d stuck to so much in the past few minutes.

  “That’s why I’m so willing to offer you ten thousand of our best transports!”

  Hadjar frowned.

  “But,” the sectarian suddenly said, “Maybe you have some sympathy for them? There are rumors, General Hadjar, and I don’t know whether to believe them or not, but they say that you don’t like slave collars and anything to do with them. Because of some childhood trauma, perhaps? But you’re from a remote mountain village, aren’t you? Did any evildoers kidnap your parents and do something nasty to them? Maybe they were even my fellow disciples? That would be bad.”

  Hadjar flinched as if he’d been whipped, which was a sensation he knew all too well.

  He unwittingly reached for his sword.

  “Please do it, General,” the sectarian spit out the last word mockingly. “Come on, unsheathe your sword. Break the rules of hospitality! Great General Hadjar. Slayer of monsters and giants, who defeated Dragon Tooth with one strike, and won the battle at the Blue Wind ridge almost singlehandedly.”

  “Leave,” Hadjar growled.

  “But why, illustrious General?” the sectarian scoffed. “Even some of my own students sing the songs that praise your deeds. Where are your might and courage?”

  “I won’t flout the rules of hospitality because of you, motherfucker.”

  “Well, let me do it, then!”

  The sectarian grabbed his scythe. Its blade immediately flashed in the sun.

  Somewhere behind Hadjar, his soldiers unsheathed their blades, and the archers pulled back their bowstrings and nocked their arrows.

  Hadjar raised his fist in the air and the soldiers froze.

  “Do you think that you’re the first, General?” the sectarian whispered. “I’ve seen a thousand winters, Hadjar. I’ve strangled a hundred thousand heroes like you with these hands. Deluded fools who had achieved little but imagined themselves to be gods among men. I was at the Formation stage before your grandmother even thought of making love to your grandfather. To me, you’re just an ant climbing a tree and deluding itself into thinking it’s a giant.”

  The sectarian laughed, stood up, and kicked the jug of wine aside.

  “I’m on the verge of becoming a true cultivator,” the sectarian hissed, “but because of the stupid rules of hospitality, I had to drink this donkey piss. Come on, General, take hold of your sword. Show me how great you are. Because right now, all I see is a filthy mutt barking at a caravan.”

  “Leave,” Hadjar repeated calmly.

  He continued to sit on the grass, drinking the tart and sweet wine. He’d always liked it. It reminded him of Eina.

  “You’re a coward, General. And a wuss.”

  Hadjar looked up at the chief guard who had tried to provoke him. Maybe he’d lived for a thousand years, but he certainly hadn’t gotten any smarter for it. If Hadjar had been the first to break the ‘seal’ of hospitality, then the sect would’ve had a good reason to declare him a liar and someone as wild as an animal. How many Baliumians would’ve wanted to fight under the banner of such a man?

  “Oh, I remember this old joke, you don’t say anything three times, General. Isn’t that right?” The sectarian turned away and went to his ‘horse’. “Do you know, General, how much you can find out about any man if you have enough money? And how much a girl, proud to have known the hero, will tell you?”

  The sectarian cast the gray cloth with the bloody runes aside.

  Something cracked and broke in Hadjar’s chest.

  Among the scars and burn marks on her once beautiful face, he saw the familiar green eyes. The eyes that had once burned brighter than the hottest fire. Now, they were pale and empty. Lifeless, like the dunes in the Sea of Sands.

  It was Stepha.

  The first person who’d shown him kindness in his years as a slave.

  The first woman who’d warmed his cooling heart.

  “What do you say now, great Ge-”

  None of the soldiers understood what happened in that moment. They saw a mighty dragon curled up on the grass, instead of Hadjar. A moment later, Hadjar sheathed his blade.

  No one saw how he’d managed to raise his sword off the ground and how he’d gotten behind the sectarian.

  Only the strongest among them could discern a black raven flying over the white tablecloth.

  The chief guard tried to finish his sentence, but he couldn’t.

  At first, his arms fell off, then his body began to split in half. But even before the fountain of blood erupted from him, the sectarian’s head fell from his shoulders and rolled across the field.

  Without turning back, Hadjar knelt down in front of the once beautiful girl.

  Hadjar felt her scars like they were his own. Her burns stung his skin.

  He didn’t find a single remnant of that free, vivacious woman in her eyes.

  He had been right—they hadn’t been destined to meet again. Here, on the grass, was only her mutilated flesh, but not her soul. That was long gone.

  “Goodbye,” Hadjar whispered.

  Covering his eyes, he slowly drew his dagger from its sheath.

  There was no cry, no agony. The strike was quick and clean. She didn’t even flinch as her heart stopped beating.

  Hadjar gently lowered what was left of Stepha to the ground.

  He turned toward his army, and every single soldier shuddered at what they saw in the depths of his blue eyes.

  “Bring a trebuchet!” he boomed.

  That night, their chief guard’s remains flew through the sky toward the sixth pavilion. Hadjar didn’t care about what the stories would say, whether they would call him an oathbreaker or a hero… Whichever one it ended up being, there was no doubt that all the songs would be soaked in blood.

  Chapter 105

  Wrapped in furs, Hadjar sat near his tent and looked at the mountain pass. The north wind had finally brought snow. The large, white, cold flakes fell from the sky, covering the ground with a fluffy, cold blanket.

  “My General.”

  “General Hadjar.”

  The soldiers passing by saluted him a
nd hurried about their business.

  After Hadjar had sent the chief guard of ‘The Black Gates’ to his eternal rest with one attack, the respect and fear they had for their General had grown. However, Hadjar didn’t see anything noteworthy in what he’d done.

  Meryl had been the weakest chief guard of the sect, but even then, he had been on the verge of becoming a true cultivator. The man had surely been much stronger than Dragon Tooth. The only thing that had allowed Hadjar to do what he’d done was the chief guard’s pride.

  Over the millennium he’d spent on the mountain peak, Meryl had gotten used to dominating everyone around him. The disciples, teachers, and masters alike had bowed and scraped before him. He was a kind of king. By god, the King of Balium himself had showed him great respect.

  And what had he seen in front of him? A simple beggar who was still at the Formation level’s Fragments stage. In the sect, such disciples were valued, of course, but still weren’t worth the chief guard’s personal attention.

  Even if he’d known about Hadjar’s talent in the path of the Sword, he might have considered it exaggerated or even made up. The simple lies of bards who wanted to profit from a song or get some free drinks at a tavern.

  And that’s what had killed him.

  His ignorance, arrogance, and the belief that he was destined to climb to the top of the world.

  If Meryl had been fully prepared for the fight, Hadjar would’ve perhaps had to work hard to defeat him. Regardless, the General was confident in his swordsmanship. If his opponent wasn’t a true cultivator, he had a good chance of beating them.

  “My General?” Lian came up to him quietly.

  Dressed in fur pants and the same fur coats like he was, she moved like a cat through the snow.