Dragon Heart: Sea of Sand. LitRPG Wuxia Series: Book 4 Page 4

  “My Master says that the more scars a warrior has, the weaker they are,” Shakh scoffed. “A real warrior allows only their beloved to touch their skin!”

  “Well, I guess nobody has touched your skin except your mother, in that case,” Hadjar retorted casually.

  Shakh’s face became so bright red that it was obvious that Hadjar’s words had scored a point. The boy’s confidence was finished off by Ilmena’s undisguised laughter, as she had recovered from her battle and was now spectating.

  “Begin, and may the Great Stars favor you,” Shakar repeated the ceremonial phrase.

  As soon as the chief finished speaking the phrase, Shakh grabbed his two daggers. Again, that same white energy flowed through them. It touched the sand and the conjured dogs jumped out of two whirlwinds. Then, same as before, the young warrior’s daggers evaporated, turning into the dogs’ glittering steel tongues.

  Hadjar watched Shakh’s energy carefully, but didn’t spot a single hint of a secret Technique in how it moved. The young man continued to move his hands like an experienced puppeteer at a show. He thrust his right palm forward and gave a single order: “Kill him!”

  The dogs howled and dived into the sand. It was quite amazing to watch them from a safe distance, but facing the dangerous Technique directly was... Well, apparently, Hadjar had earned his Mad General nickname for a reason.

  His lips curved into an anticipatory, almost crazy and inhuman smile. The spectators felt like the chief’s nephew wasn’t fighting a human, but a beast. A monster wearing a human’s skin, one that hungered for battle.

  Hadjar brought forth his nameless, but still good blade. He scanned the sand around him, feeling the hungry dogs circling him somewhere in its depths. No matter how much Hadjar tried, he couldn’t determine where exactly they would come out of the ground from.

  Using only his instincts, he slashed to the right. The attack launched a crescent of energy, leaving a deep furrow on the wall that was thirty paces away. The dog that had been split in half howled, but immediately recovered, the two halves of it merging back together, and dived back into the sand.

  Hadjar snarled like that same dog had when his right thigh was struck with a sharp flash of pain. From the sand next to his foot, one of the dogs had emerged and dug in with its sandy fangs, then slashed him with the dagger that had replaced its tongue. Before Hadjar had time to counterattack, it disappeared into the sand again.

  All this time, Shakh had been moving his hands as if he were controlling the dogs’ movements. If that had been the case, Hadjar would’ve sensed the flow of energy coming from his fingers.

  Deciding to check his hunch, Hadjar assumed the first stance of the ‘Light Breeze’ Technique.

  “Strong Wind,” Hadjar whispered softly.

  He didn’t need to say the name of the Technique out loud, but it helped him concentrate. Hadjar swung his sword, sending out a wave of cutting wind that contained whirling, ghostly blades and the shadowy outline of a dragon.

  Such a powerful attack made most of the spectators reach for their weapons instinctively, but Shakh didn’t even blink. He waved his hands and the two dogs, emerging from the sand in front of him, formed a sand wall that stopped Hadjar’s attack.

  “What the-”

  Hadjar didn’t have time to finish speaking, as he now had to fend off the creatures that were attacking him. He swung his sword with a speed that none of those present could’ve duplicated, except, perhaps, Shakar. However, that wasn’t enough to deal with the sand dogs. More and more cuts appeared on Hadjar’s body. Blood flowed down his skin in rivulets. His wounds stung from his salty sweat.

  Hadjar wouldn’t have been surprised if Shakh had dodged his attack, if he’d interfered with the Technique itself, if he’d cut it in half, but for the first time ever, he had witnessed someone simply block the ‘Strong Wind’.

  Noticing a slight misstep in the sandy dogs’ rhythm, Hadjar assumed another stance. Breathing in deeply, he used almost half his energy.

  “Spring Wind!” he cried.

  The attack, which contained the mysteries of the Sword Spirit and had been amplified by the ‘Spring Wind’ stance, took the form of an angry dragon sitting atop a bright, huge blade. Despite its size, the blade was so fast as it whistled through the air that it took everyone by surprise.

  Shakh tried to create another wall in front of him, but didn’t manage to complete the Technique in time. As a result, the blade didn’t find its goal but still struck him, even after being mostly deflected by his half-finished wall. Luckily for him, it only grazed Shakh’s shoulder.

  Leaving a long trail of blood behind it, the conjured blade flew for at least forty steps, then cut down the roof of a house standing nearby. Fortunately, the building was abandoned and nobody lived there. The might of the attack impressed not only the spectators, but also Shakar.

  The chief of security quickly realized that this was an incredible feat for a simple practitioner. Managing to do something like this before reaching the level of a true cultivator was... Great Stars, had the living legend of Lidus fallen into his lap?

  Shakh, grimacing in pain, immediately pulled a strip of cloth from his belt and wrapped his shoulder. With adrenaline surging through his veins, he didn’t notice the extent of the damage his opponent’s Technique had caused. He returned to the battle eagerly. His dogs turned into a miniature sandstorm, and their bladed tongues flickered with such speed that it seemed as if there were not two, but twenty of them.

  Hadjar deflected the attacks as fast as he could. He created a sphere of steel around him. Repeatedly, he fought off unexpected attacks that came from the oddest angles and directions. He had to rely on his instincts alone because it was impossible to see or predict where the next blow would come from.

  Hadjar could no longer follow Shakh’s onslaught. Initially, he had wanted to test this Technique, but now he was trying to stay alive. The peril ignited the warrior’s fighting spirit. He knew perfectly well that he didn’t understand anything about this style. It didn’t look like a straightforward practitioner’s Technique, but more like what Serra and Nehen had used.

  Finally, after one of the dogs had done far more than just cut his skin, and actually plunged its blade very deeply into his left shoulder, Hadjar decided that it was time to end this. Apparently, it wouldn’t be as easy to discover the secret of Shakh’s Technique and fighting style as he’d hoped.

  Somewhere deep inside, Hadjar grabbed for, felt, saw — he couldn’t find the right words to describe the feeling. Anyway, it felt like he’d mentally picked up the sword. Not his actual, metal blade, but his inner one. The shadow of the shadow of the Sword Spirit hidden in the World River.

  Hadjar guided this ‘sword’ into his simple metal one and then swung once. This simple attack, not even a Technique, looked like a thin strip of wind flying toward Shakh. Except there was so much power in it that it dispelled the sandstorm and pulled it along as easily as a single grain of sand. The spectators’ hearts missed a beat.

  Ilmena grabbed her daggers and the islander set his staff in front of him.

  Shakh didn’t sense a sword strike flying toward him, but an enraged dragon hidden in the wind. He immediately erected the densest and heaviest sand wall that he was capable of producing in front of him, but even before the collision, it was clear that this wouldn’t be enough to stop the attack.

  Suddenly, a small sun came to life in the arena.

  Shakar, holding his broadsword, which was shrouded in a golden glow, in front of him, met the northerner’s strike. The deceptively thin strip of wind struck the rock made of golden sunshine. What could a simple practitioner do to Shakar’s best defensive Technique? Perhaps nothing.

  But the very second that the golden rock that was covering the chief of security and his nephew formed, Shakar felt something so sharp in that strip of wind that he feared it would be able to cut through not only the ‘Golden Rock’ Technique, but an entire mountain.

  At the l
ast second, Shakar moved his broadsword, and instead of blocking the strike, he parried it with the same golden glow. The attack, which had lost a good portion of its power and speed, flew at least fifty paces before it melted in the air.

  “Uncle,” Shakh began, but didn’t finish, stumbling on his words after seeing Shakar’s condemning glance.

  “The Northerner has won,” the adamant verdict came.

  No one protested, in spite of the fact that Hadjar was covered in cuts and blood. Every spectator had seen a glimpse of their own death in that last strike.

  Chapter 263

  Shakar sheathed his sword and turned to Hadjar and the islander. His eyes weren’t happy. Despite the fact that he’d managed to get two very strong practitioners for the caravan this time, he still felt like he had failed his nephew. He couldn’t even stand to look at Shakh right now. It seemed like the boy’s whole life had collapsed today. Ilmena looked no better. Apparently, the desire to escape from their native town and go on a dangerous journey was one they shared.

  “I’ll be waiting for you at the southern town gates tomorrow at dawn,” Shakar said dryly. “Don’t be late.”

  After picking up his caftan from the sand and putting his turban on his head, the cultivator and his nephew went over to the nearest tavern. Well, it was called a ‘tavern’ in Lidus, here it was called something so absurdly complex that Hadjar couldn’t even pronounce it.

  Ilmena also left the parade ground after giving a half-sad, half-interested look to Hadjar. Sighing, Hadjar scratched Azrea’s neck, got dressed, and went in the direction opposite of where Shakh and Shakar had gone. He wasn’t avoiding them, but he figured that he’d upset the boy enough for one day. And it had all been in vain. He hadn’t been able to understand the essence of his Technique, so he’d made the caravan’s chief of security hate him for nothing and bled in vain.

  “Damn it,” Hadjar sighed.

  The spectators also gradually dispersed. Some of them had helped the guards carry the dead man’s body to his family. They’d done so rather routinely and practically without any emotion. The local mentality was very different. Hadjar had almost gotten used to it. It was easier for him here than at home, as his sense of guilt couldn’t catch up to Hadjar, always getting lost somewhere among the rocks and dunes of the endless desert.

  Night was slowly descending on the town. Hadjar shivered slightly when the cold northern wind hit him. It was a peculiarity of deserts — in daytime, a person could die from the heat, but after sunset, they could die from the cold. Or from the claws of the myriad of beasts that lived in the vast expanse of the Sea of Sand.

  With the advent of the chill, the streets of the border town livened up: lights were lit, trade began in the bazaar, the noise of revelry in teahouses and taverns could be heard. Musicians played, bronze-skinned beauties whirled in intricate dances, and heavy golden bracelets gleamed on their ankles. All of these sounds combined into a general symphony very melodiously.

  Walking over to the door of a tavern (a thick mat hanging from long-rusted nails), Hadjar turned around abruptly. Besides the children running around with glittering lights and the smiling girls, he saw no one else in the street. However, the instincts he’d developed during his years of war told the former General an undeniable truth — he wasn’t as alone as he seemed to be.

  There weren’t many people inside. This tavern was on the outskirts and had a bad reputation. The locals weren’t glad to host foreigners. They preferred to see them move on and hopefully die in the desert. If someone stayed for longer than a day, they immediately got the stink eye. In the ‘Sandy Surf’ tavern, there were almost no locals to be found.

  The furnishings were more familiar to Hadjar here, more northern — ordinary chairs and tables. Not made from oak, of course, but still sturdy. Instead of tea and various wines, they served hooch and mead. Where they got it from was probably a mystery to even the God of drunkenness and celebration.

  Sitting down at a table that was out of the way and nodding to several mercenaries (Hadjar had learned about the caravan from them), he ordered some fried fish and two pints of hooch. Hadjar didn’t have the money to order anything else. Fortunately, at his level, a practitioner didn’t need food very often.

  A girl brought the order. It was probably difficult for her to live among the locals because she was a half-breed. Her father ran the place and her mother was a Baliumian artist. Her red hair, blue eyes, and bronze skin were an explosive combination.

  “Your order. Put here. Good appetite,” the girl spoke in broken Baliumian.

  Hadjar smiled at her and nodded, pretending that the waitress’ speech was clear and correct. Once his food was on the table, he gently lowered Azrea near it. The moment the tiger cub smelled the food, she woke up and pounced on it.

  Despite her displeased hissing, Hadjar managed to grab half the fish and a pint of hooch. Azrea drank the second pint almost instantly. The little tigress liked alcohol as much as milk. She would’ve gulped the forty-degree mead down in one swallow if she physically could.

  “I’ve never seen such a tiger,” a light, whistling voice said.

  Hadjar wasn’t surprised to find the bald islander sitting in front of him, eating the same exact fish. He was more surprised by the realization that the islander had been sitting there for at least five minutes. However, neither Hadjar, nor Azrea, whose senses sometimes surpassed even the analytical abilities of the neural network, had noticed him.

  As if to confirm Hadjar’s suspicions, the tiger cub turned toward their guest. Her fur bristling, she flicked her claws out and hissed very threateningly.

  “I think you should introduce yourself,” Hadjar said in the islander’s native language, stroking and soothing his furry companion.

  The islander tilted his head to the side. He seemed genuinely surprised.

  “The inhabitants of the mainland usually have the accent of the central islands. They almost never sound like people from the southern ones. You, Hadjar Traves, have the accent of someone from the southern islands.”

  “You know my name, but I don’t know yours,” Hadjar replied, making it clear that he wasn’t going to continue this conversation without that knowledge.

  For a while, they sat in silence. The locals were having fun outside, trying to ignore the tavern where foreigners seemed to be the only patrons. Most of them were mercenaries who guarded the caravans. It’s not like all of the locals wanted to risk their lives on a six-year journey, but they still hated interlopers, as they saw them.

  It took three years to travel in one direction, and then three more to return.

  “My name is Einen,” the islander finally introduced himself.

  His people didn’t have surnames, and it was considered humiliating for them to introduce themselves as ‘someone’s son’. They were very freedom-loving and individualistic people. To them, families were something practical and nothing else. Well, when your country consisted of a thousand islands separated by vast bodies of water, this attitude seemed very rational.

  “What are you doing here, Einen?”

  The islander drank some hooch.

  “I’m drinking and speaking to a northerner. I want to know where he got his southern islands accent.”

  Hadjar smiled.

  “Are you purposefully messing with me?”

  The islander nodded and continued to drink calmly. Hadjar had never been good at these silent games. Talking to people, thanks to the ten years of his life he’d spent as a helpless freak, was often very difficult for him. He quickly gave up.

  “Some time ago, I knew one of your countrywomen. A witch from the southern islands. Her name was Nehen.”

  For the first time, Hadjar was able to clearly see the color of the islander’s eyes. It would probably have been better if he hadn’t. It was very unusual to see almost purple irises. However, Einen quickly pulled himself together and returned to his customary, mysterious look, his eyes no longer wide in shock.

  “Th
at explains a lot.”

  “What, for example?”

  The islander rose from his seat.

  “The fact that you tried to understand something that you can’t understand. In the barbarian kingdoms, people forgot about the true path of cultivation long ago.”

  With that, he left Hadjar sitting there, at a loss. Einen exited the tavern, letting in the cool evening breeze.

  Chapter 264

  After he finished his dinner, Hadjar smoked silently for a while and looked out the window. The purpose of Einen’s visit was a mystery to him. His next visitor was quite frank in her intentions.

  Ilmena came to the tavern drunk. She swayed when she walked, her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes glittered as brightly as Azrea’s. However, even in such a state, she was still charming enough to make men stare.

  Staggering, she went over to Hadjar’s table and sat down across from him. She smelled of something sweet and alcoholic.

  “Northerner,” the warrior said slowly, “come with me.”

  She grabbed Hadjar by the wrist and tried to lift him, but too much poison was in her blood. She had little strength and reason left at the moment. Once she was done with her several ridiculous attempts to lift a man who was three times heavier than she was, she gave up and sat back down.

  “Well, okay,” Ilmena shrugged. “If that’s how you want it, we can do it right here.”

  Still holding Hadjar’s wrist, she put his hand on her breast. Hadjar’s blood immediately boiled with passion. His libido reminded him that there was more to the world than just the sword and fighting. A gorgeous woman was interested in him. Warm. Pliant. Soft.

  Hadjar pulled back his hand. Not instantly, but he did.

  The mercenaries around them practically emanated envy and lust. Fortunately, they weren’t drunk enough to lose their heads and try to grab their blades.