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

by Kirill Klevanski

  Chapter 258

  “All of you gathered here today…” Shakar stood on a small dais. His gray eyes looked at the crowd of applicants for the position of caravan guards dispassionately. “…All of you are either very stupid or very brave. Maybe both.”

  How many times had he stood like this and gazed at his future colleagues’ faces? How many of them had he buried in the sands? And yet, his hope that he would pick people who would come back this time never faded.

  147 guards accompanied the caravan numbering nearly a thousand people and twice as many livestock. Their number had never changed due to the local beliefs. The way to the Empire was long and complicated.

  “You are stupid because you don’t want to wait and save up enough money to travel with the nobles. Even if it takes you five years to do so, you’ll still get to the Empire faster than with us.”

  Many of applicants were driven by a desire to not only get to the Empire but also get there without being poor. With the nobles, they would have to spend money, but they could even earn some by being a guard. The caravan moved through many of the cities and towns in the Sea of Sand. The trade there had never faded away, and if you weren’t a fool, had a mind for business, and enough courage, you could earn a small fortune in one trip. If, of course, you survived.

  “You are brave because you’ll face a lot of dangers: brigands, sandy spirits and monsters, desert thunderstorms, otherworldly creatures, anomalies, and,” in a habitual gesture, Shakar threw back his caftan, revealing a terrible scar on his right hip. To be honest, there was little left of it, “if you aren’t lucky, then you’ll face the last Lord of the Heavens in the Sea of Sand.”

  The applicants started whispering. Ever since childhood, they’d heard the legends of a dragon living in the mountains, hidden away somewhere in the most secret corners of the Sea of Sand. This dragon was so ancient that it remembered a time when an actual sea had covered the land, not one of sand.

  Few people believed that Shakar’s scar had really been left by the dragon. The chief of security dearly wanted to forget that night when two amber eyes had left only him alive out of the entire, huge caravan.

  Shakar, while looking around at the applicants, spotted the northerner. The one that had sat in the teahouse near them. He stood next to Shakh. He was tall and broad-shouldered, but his figure was more suited to an acrobat than a warrior. However, what intrigued and even... scared Shakar were the northerner’s blue eyes.

  In their depths, where others had a window into their soul, the northerner had a sleeping dragon. Shakar blinked and the image disappeared. He once again saw a perfectly ordinary stranger before him. The ones from Lidus rarely survived the first month of the trek through the Sea of Sand. The local weather was too cruel to their snow-kissed skin. Snow... Shakar had never believed that anything besides simple water could fall from the sky (he had seen rain three times in his life), but frozen water... It was surely a lie.

  “Nevertheless, for each week of the journey, you’ll receive one copper Imperial coin,” Shakar continued.

  A wave of whispers started up again. One hundred and fifty weeks of travel amounted to almost six silver Imperial coins. You could buy yourself a spot in some prestigious school of martial arts with that. Or a good sword, or maybe some new boots. It was a very respectable amount of money.

  “I won’t discourage you, as all of you have brains and have begun drinking wine, not breast milk. So I’ll just say that, this year, I’ll be taking only two of you with me. That means...” Shakar counted the number of faces looking at him. There were more willing people than usual this year. Perhaps it was due to the fact that the next Great Tournament would be held in the Empire in this decade. “...37 of you will go home with nothing.”

  Hadjar absently patted the leather wallet hanging on his belt. This gesture had already become habitual for him. He wanted to stop doing that, but he often didn’t even notice when his palm touched the wallet that held the two bracelets.

  “To simplify the selection process, I’ll let only four of you compete. In order to get to the next stage, all you have to do is use your best attack against me.”

  Shakar took his heavy caftan off his shoulders and jumped down into the sand of the parade ground. His powerful arms were now bare for all to see. Covered with numerous scars, they caused almost the same unease as a broadsword being unsheathed by the Heaven Soldier — they certainly looked like weapons. Shakar threw off his sandals, burying his toes into the warm sand with a sigh of enjoyment.

  He’d never been a frontier resident and his soul had always urged him toward the south, to the sand and dunes. Only in that endless kingdom of death, fire, and heat did he feel free to live the way he wanted and die as the gods would wish.

  Hadjar arched his right eyebrow slightly. He’d expected almost anything, but not this... almost barbaric approach. And these people claimed that the northerners were dirty barbarians...

  Maybe no one in Lidus used incense and they often ate with just their hands, but they certainly didn’t ask regular people to fight against a cultivator. He remembered his exam when he’d joined the army. Everything had seemed logical and adequate there, while the local customs...Oh well. When in Rome, do as the Romans do.

  Crossing his arms, Hadjar waited for his turn.

  A big-bellied warrior stepped forward with a huge hammer in his hands. He exhaled steam from his nostrils like an enraged bull. Leading with his hammer, he pushed off the ground. As he jumped, cracks appeared on the parade ground, and the soaring warrior no longer seemed so clumsy.

  Like a cannonball, the man fell from the sky and slammed the heavy hammer into Shakar’s head. Waves caused by the strike rippled through the air, followed by a loud bang. Many of the applicants covered their faces with their hands, shielding their eyes from the earth and sand.

  Once the assembled warriors were able to see normally again, their faces became distorted by grimaces of surprise, admiration, horror, and despair. Shakar was holding the huge hammer, capable of splitting a fortress wall in half, in the palm of his outstretched hand as easily as a teacup.

  The caravan’s chief of security lazily slapped his free palm against the warrior’s chest. Waves rippled outward from this blow as well, except they were much more powerful than the ones made by the hammer had been. The sound was more like distant thunder, and the warrior flew back a dozen yards, leaving a bloody trail behind him as blood fountained from his mouth.

  Sliding across the ground, he crashed into the wall and froze for a few seconds. He couldn’t get up right away as the entire right side of his chest had turned black. Leaning on his hammer and groaning, he bowed to Shakar and immediately fell back onto his knees. He didn’t have enough strength to stand.

  “Who’s next?” Shakar asked.

  Hadjar now understood why the chief of security had chosen this method to check the applicants’ abilities: one demonstration had been enough for most of the warriors to take a step back, demonstrating that they no longer had any desire to participate. The others hesitantly shifted from one foot to the other. Looking around, Hadjar shrugged and took a step forward.

  “Northerner,” Shakar nodded. This person had intrigued him from the very beginning. This man probably thought that the caravan’s chief of security hadn’t noticed that he’d been following him for about a month. “I hope you managed to find the time to pray to your gods and ancestors.”

  “Honorable Shakar,” Hadjar bowed. “I beg you to draw your sword.”

  “Northerner,” Shakar repeated. “You don’t have an ounce of tact, but possess an ocean of self-confidence. Don’t delay my compatriots. Strike, and, if you survive my counterattack, you can go back to your snows and mountains.”

  Shakar was startled once again, when, for just a moment, he saw the gleam of a dragon stirring in the foreigner’s blue eyes.

  “Northerner,” Hadjar said thoughtfully. “I like that nickname more than the Mad General.”

  Hadjar’s sword l
eft its scabbard with such speed that some of the spectators thought that the northerner had unleashed steel lightning and not a mere blade. The attack that launched from the edge of the blade took the form of a dragon’s fang, tearing through the air and leaving a ghostly plume behind it. Anyone well-versed enough in the mysteries of the Sword Spirit sensed a bit of it in this strike.

  Stunned, Shakar barely managed to draw his broadsword and block the northerner’s attack. It turned out to be so strong that the chief was dragged about three yards across the sand, and when the strike dissipated, a drop of blood fell on the sand, falling from a small scratch on Shakar’s forehead.

  Straightening up and lowering his broadsword, the chief of security stared at the warrior for a while. He’s at the Transformation of the Mortal Shell Stage, no higher. He hasn’t even reached the Awakening of the Soul Stage yet. Still… I’m sure that wasn’t even his best Technique.

  “You’ve earned your spot in the next trial, Northerner.”

  Chapter 259

  Hadjar stood among the other aspirants with his arms crossed and calmly observed what was happening on the parade ground, completely ignoring the other warriors’ curious and even frightened glances.

  After him, a girl wielding daggers stepped up. She was thin and graceful, her hips swaying slightly as she walked. Her daggers looked like the sharp fangs of a predator ready to pounce on its prey. Like most of the women in the Sea of Sand, she wore light clothes. Brown leather pants accentuated the curve of her hips. Her long, black hair flowed over her shoulders. Her face was covered with a cloth that had a red dragon hieroglyph on it. However, most of the men weren’t looking at the girl’s face, but at her flat stomach, curvy hips, and the ample bosom protruding from her leather breastplate. Hadjar would’ve called it a bra, not armor. However, over the past months, he’d never seen anyone around here wearing anything even resembling metal armor. It was understandable because wearing such things would mean certain death in the incredibly hot weather.

  “Ilmena,” Shakh whispered dreamily.

  “Honorable Shakar,” the girl bowed, “please don’t sheathe your blade.”

  This time, the chief of security didn’t scoff or roll his eyes. On the contrary, he treated this young girl very seriously, despite her only being a little older than his own nephew.

  Ilmena bent her knees slightly, which made the hearts of the surrounding men beat faster. Like the others, Hadjar couldn’t resist the urge to admire her form as too much time had passed since he’d had a lover.

  Immediately, sparks flared up across the length of the practitioner’s daggers, turning into red lightning. They slid off the blades, shrouding Ilmena in a shining cover of red webs. Hadjar almost couldn’t believe what happened next.

  He’d always considered his speed and agility to be his greatest assets. But what this desert warrior showed was beyond the northerner’s understanding.

  The girl simply disappeared from one place and appeared in another — right behind Shakar. Two metallic clanks signaled that the man had managed to repel her attacks. But the spectators had seen... nothing, only a red flash.

  Hadjar managed to discern what looked to be the wings of an eagle in the lightning that swirled around the warrior.

  “An incredible Technique,” admiration could be heard in Shakar’s voice. “I still don’t understand how Shakh managed to defeat you in the town’s tournament.”

  “Ask your nephew,” Ilmena’s tone made it clear that she felt great contempt for the young man.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Hadjar noticed how much this statement hurt the young man. Well, he didn’t care about their love affairs. He only wanted to get a spot in the caravan as a guard, so he could kill two birds with one stone: get to the Empire, which, more assuredly, was his first priority, and also to get a chance to visit Underworld City.

  “You’ve earned a spot as well, Ilmena.”

  After Ilmena left, the people became bored —nobody was that interesting. In an attempt to get Shakar’s approval, the challengers performed their best attacks. Some of them left under their own power while others were carried away.

  One of them, a most unlucky man, failed to duck in time and his neck ended up being cut open. Shakar called the guards over, gave them a bag of money, and asked them to take the body to the deceased man’s relatives.

  None of those present showed any emotion upon witnessing the incident. The locals’ outlook was pragmatic. They didn’t take life too seriously. Probably because the death brought by the sands of the desert was something natural, almost expected.

  Finally, a bald guy with six red dots on his forehead came forward. Hadjar, like many others, was very surprised to see an islander so far from his native sea. The warrior had narrow eyes, a whistling accent, and yellowish skin that had almost turned the color of rust under the sun.

  The islander held a wooden staff topped with heavy metal caps. Bowing deeply to the chief of security, he abruptly flipped the weapon in his hands, turning the staff into a huge wheel. Then he shouted something and swung his staff.

  Out of the sand, some of the shadows rose and came to life. They merged into the form of an angry ape. With a wild roar, it leapt through the air and attacked Shakar, trying to tear him limb from limb. Hadjar hoped that the desert cultivator would be forced to use his Technique this time, but it was not to be. Shakar just casually waved his broadsword and the ape disappeared with a slight hiss.

  “You pass, Islander.”

  The bald warrior bowed silently, sheathed the staff behind his back, and returned to the line. He and Ilmena were at the New Soul’s Transformation Stage. However, Hadjar could’ve sworn on the graves of his ancestors that neither of them were any older than twenty winters. The world had really turned out to be much larger than what it had seemed to be from the top of the Palace tower of Lidus.

  Once again, a long procession of very boring fighters followed. They had different weapons: swords, daggers (the favorite weapon of the desert dwellers), sickles, whips, strange maces, short bows, spiked gauntlets, even exotic double and triple-bladed daggers.

  Hadjar had never seen such an abundance of various weapons before. He didn’t even know the proper names of most of them. Despite the fact that all of these warriors failed to gain the chief of security’s approval, Hadjar was still glad to observe their styles and Techniques, which were new to him.

  The way these people fought was radically different from anything Hadjar had ever seen before. Perhaps Serra’s powers had been similar, but she’d been a witch, not a warrior.

  “Honorable Shakar,” Shakh came forward.

  The uncle nodded silently to his nephew and, to Hadjar’s surprise, assumed a low combat stance. The chief hadn’t done anything like that before. It looked like he was getting ready for a deadly battle. This fact aroused genuine interest in almost all of the remaining spectators. Shakh was the last to fight, but those who’d been lucky enough to get out of the fight with the Heaven Soldier unharmed weren’t hurrying to leave the parade ground. They wanted to observe the battles between a true cultivator and other practitioners. This could broaden their horizons, deepen their understanding of the cultivation path, and help further their progress.

  Like his uncle, Shakh took off his sandals and dug his toes into the sand. At that moment, he didn’t look like a beardless youth at all. On the contrary, he was like a young tiger, ready to savage its prey. Detached from the whole world, he only briefly focused on the battle and his target’s throat.

  The daggers in his hands didn’t look like elegant toys. They were two claws, thirsty for blood. However, Shakh swung them not toward his uncle, but... down into the sand. A second later, Hadjar’s understanding of the world was shaken yet again. From the tips of Shakh’s blades, thin, ghostly strands of white energy stretched out toward the sand.

  They stirred up sand around themselves until two barely noticeable, wild desert dogs formed from the whirlwinds. They howled and growled menacingly, low
ering their sandy mugs to the ground. The daggers disappeared from Shakh’s hands and now glowed in each of the dogs’ mouths.

  The young man waved his hands forward and gave only one order:

  “Get him!”

  The dogs charged... down into the sand. Everything became quiet. They seemed to have disappeared, and only the oppressive feeling that someone was holding a sharp blade to everyone’s throats made it clear that the Technique wasn’t merely trickery.

  The dogs, whose tongues had been replaced by the daggers, surged up, right out of the sand, attacking Shakar from different directions. The chief cut the first beast in half, which did nothing to stop it. The broadsword seemed to pass through it harmlessly and then the body of the creature merged back together.

  The second creature, moving as swiftly as a raindrop in a downpour, slashed Shakar’s leg and dived back into the sand.

  Hadjar stared at what was happening and couldn’t believe his eyes. He still couldn’t believe it when a scarlet symbol flashed on Shakar’s left palm and a scarlet flame came to life around the Heaven Soldier for a brief moment. A mournful whine sounded, and then the daggers reappeared in Shakh’s hands.

  The young man was breathing heavily and wiping off blood that was seeping out of the corners of his mouth.

  “The Spirits of the Desert Technique,” Shakar nodded respectfully. “Now I understand how you defeated Ilmena. You’ve advanced to the next stage, Shakh. The competition will begin in five minutes.”

  Chapter 260

  During the five minute break, the three guards (they’d already carried the dead body away) cleared the parade ground and drew a hexagonal star. The desert dwellers used this symbol instead of the battle circle that was used in the north.

  They believed that each of the six sides reflected a sacred combat Technique of the God of War, Derger. According to the desert peoples, anyone that could comprehend even one of these Techniques would immediately ascend to the level of an Immortal. The person who found and mastered all six Techniques would become a god and join Derger’s legions to fight alongside the God of War against...