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

by Kirill Klevanski

  “What’s my name, Brom?” the young man asked suddenly.

  The former mercenary was thunderstruck. He hadn’t used that name for almost a decade now, from the day he’d had to flee Lidus. How could the boy possibly know it? What Technique had he used to slice his ‘Shooting Star’ in half? Never before had Brom seen so much power and death concentrated in the simple swing of a blade. He could even swear he’d seen a dragon hidden in the attack.

  “Do we know each other?” Brom shouted over his shield.

  “Do we know each other?” Hadjar repeated. “Until you answer that question, Brom, I won’t kill you.”

  Hadjar sheathed his sword and then untied it from his belt. He secured the hilt with tape so that the blade didn’t accidentally slip out. A moment later, he kicked off the ground, using the ‘Ten Ravens’ Technique.

  His shadow turned into four black birds, and then he appeared to the right of Brom. The bandit didn’t have time to blink before a battering ram struck his side. His bones cracked, a trickle of blood escaped his mouth, and the mercenary was thrown into the air. Hadjar didn’t stop there, however.

  Pushing off the ground, he flew up and over Brom and then kicked down, striking his enemy’s chest. The bandit folded in half and fell from the sky like a meteor. The impact was so strong that a sand cloud rose up around the crater it caused, and Brom, wheezing, barely managed to crawl out of it. If not for the Strengthening of the Body Techniques that he’d studied in Lidus, that single kick would’ve broken all his bones and turned his internal organs into mush.

  “What’s my name, Brom?” Hadjar asked again.

  Brom looked up at the young man. He stood with his sword sheathed. The aura of a practitioner on the verge of reaching the Transformation of the Spirit Stage emanated from him. Damn it! He was a whole stage lower than Brom! However, the mercenary understood that he stood no chance against this monster. He saw his death in the depths of the man’s unyielding eyes.

  “Die, you fucking bitch!” Brom roared like a wounded animal.

  He gathered his energy, and then struck out with his shield. Many people believed that his main weapon was his sword, but that was what he wanted them to think. In fact, Brom was a shield master, using it both for defense and to attack.

  The emerald light turned into an avalanche and rushed toward his enemy. Sharp discs swirled within the attack — phantom images of the sharpened edges of his shield — like starlight.

  “Star Flare,” Brom croaked.

  Using this attack, he had once been able to injure a true cultivator, a simple practitioner surely had no-

  The world froze again. There was no flash, no dragon’s roar, no pressure or insane power. Hadjar launched a simple attack, but put all his knowledge of the Way of the Sword and his inner blade into it, dredging it up from somewhere in the depths of his consciousness. A thin strip of steel light cut through the air. It was light and calm, like a feather in the wind, and as fast as Ilmena at her best. A trail of sand followed behind the strike, as if it was parting the world itself as it flew.

  The avalanche stopped, completely negated. A second later, it turned into glittering dust that melted in the air. The attack barely grazed Brom’s shoulder. He flew about thirty steps back. The impact blew away the sand all around him.

  “Bastard,” Brom swung his sword, then realized that he couldn’t feel the hilt of his blade, nor his arm, for that matter.

  With a cry, he fell to the sand. Dropping his shield, the former mercenary tried to stop the blood spurting from his shoulder. His arm, still clutching the sword, lay next to him.

  “Monster!” Brom shouted, realizing with horror that the monster was coming toward him. “Don’t come any closer, you damn monster! Demon!”

  Brom wriggled in the sand, trying to crawl away. His self-preservation instincts were forcing him to act, to try and survive. It really felt like this wasn’t a man approaching him, but a predator, a hungry and dangerous beast.

  A monster that had been able to cut through his artifact armor and strengthened body. Damn it! Brom could withstand a direct hit from a crossbow bolt and escape with only a bruise!

  “What’s my name, Brom?” His voice sounded more like a bestial roar.

  “I don’t know! Stay away, monster!”

  Hadjar looked at this man he’d never really been afraid of, but had always tried to avoid. He’d been glad to torture a feeble freak. Now, crying piteously, he was dragging himself across the sand and praying to the gods that they allow him to awaken from this terrible nightmare.

  “Look at me, Brom! Look at me!”

  Hadjar grabbed the bandit by the ear and pulled him up to eye level. They were so close that their noses almost touched. Brom peered into the man’s clear, blue eyes. Despite the rage contained within, they seemed calm and formidable. This man could split the Heavens with only his determination and will.

  Brom had seen such eyes only once before. They’d belonged to a miserable freak and it had been because of these eyes that Brom had tortured him. Just to prove to himself that he wasn’t afraid of that look.

  “You...” he croaked. “But how... You’re a freak. A cripple. No. You aren’t him. You aren’t Hadjar... You...”

  Hadjar released the bandit’s ear. He unsheathed his blade and held it over Brom’s neck. He’d waited so long for this moment... And how sweet it was.

  The sword whistled down. At the last second, Hadjar stopped it. An annoyed Azrea stood on Brom’s chest. But she wasn’t growling at Hadjar’s enemy. For the first time in all the years they’d spent together, she was growling at Hadjar.

  Chapter 276

  “Are you crazy?” Hadjar roared at her.

  The sword trembled slightly in his hands. Hadjar could barely restrain himself. A dragon raged in his eyes, and the air around him was saturated with cutting steel and pure death.

  If a mere mortal had appeared next to Hadjar at that moment, one wrong move could’ve left them in hundreds of pieces. But Azrea, her claws digging into Brom’s chest, stood motionless. Her fur bristled and her yellow eyes were as furious as Hadjar’s own. Their gazes met.

  Hadjar’s heart sank.

  He noticed his reflection in Azrea’s eyes. The person he saw there was not Hadjar Traves, the northerner, not even the Mad General. He saw the shadow of the man whom he sometimes pitied, but more often than not, hated. He didn’t see his own hands holding the sword. His eyes weren’t the ones looking at his defeated enemy. The chest that was heaving wasn’t his chest. Even his thoughts weren’t his own.

  The sword above Brom wasn’t being held by Hadjar, but by Primus.

  The animal’s fur smoothed down. Azrea stopped growling and jumped off Brom’s body. She went over to Hadjar and, purring, rubbed up against his legs. She seemed to be saying: “I understand. Don’t be afraid. I’m here. It’s okay...”

  She climbed up onto his shoulder, buried herself in his turban, and immediately fell asleep. She was certain that everything would be fine with her two-legged friend.

  Hadjar drew back from Brom.

  The rage didn’t abate in his eyes. His sword didn’t return to its scabbard, and the call of battle didn’t disappear from the air. The black wind circling his feet became slightly bluish, like a spring breeze brushing across a flowering field.

  “Stand up, Brom,” Hadjar growled. “Take up your weapon and face me like a warrior. I won’t kill you like this. It would dishonor both of us.”

  Brom didn’t get up right away. Maybe he hoped that if he remained prone, then this ghost from his past would eventually leave him alone. Or that he would simply wake up, get drunk, and try to forget about this terrible nightmare.

  Was Brom still a warrior, or had he become a chekhar? The bandit discarded his shield and took up his sword, so he was still a warrior.

  Leaning on his blade, Brom barely managed to get up and straighten his back.

  They looked at each other for a moment, and then the mercenary screamed and raised his swor
d above his head. He even took a step forward, but it was too late.

  Hadjar turned into a black shadow, making a single move. He sheathed his sword, now standing behind his foe. Brom looked at the clear, blue sky. At that moment, as blood poured from his severed throat, he missed his homeland. Then darkness took him.

  His severed head rolled across the ground and then his body finally collapsed into the sand. Hadjar exhaled and looked up at the sky.

  “Good attempt,” he said, showing his middle finger to the sun.

  Had the gods brought them together to remind Hadjar of his past? Or had they done so to lead him astray? Take away the only thing Hadjar had and truly appreciated. If not for Azrea, he would’ve surely faltered by now, choosing the easier, dishonorable path when faced with the choice.

  “Thank you,” Hadjar whispered softly.

  In response, he heard the sleeping tigress sniff.

  Turning around, Hadjar made a half-step toward the bandit camp and disappeared, turning into five ravens.

  The battle was in full swing.

  Ilmena’s red wings fluttered among the blood and screams. Her daggers, like the vicious claws of a bird, tore out the hearts and souls of the bandits. She deflected arrows and crossbow bolts with ease as she fought and dodged various Techniques. She was like a ghost moving with ethereal speed and ready to kill anyone in its path.

  Below, at the very center of the battle, a sandstorm raged. The dogs’ howling deafened the fighters. The bandit’s screams were chilling. They fell, barely touching the sandy shroud. Thousands of grains of sand pierced their bodies like sharp needles. They got into their veins, tearing apart their muscles and organs from the inside. People dried up, turning into sand-filled bags made of skin and armor.

  Shakh was in the middle of this sandy hell. Plumes of sand rushed where his arms pointed, and two daggers shone in his dogs’ jaws. At that moment, he didn’t look like a stupid, lovestruck boy at all, but like a terrible spirit of the desert.

  And then the shadows descended. They danced in the Sandstone Gorge like demons cavorting among howling sinners. Einen swam through the darkness easily and freely. Black apes sprung from his staff to break and tear his foes apart. Ink flowers bloomed sometimes, turning people into broken heaps of flesh and bone.

  Compared to his companions, Hadjar looked inconspicuous. He was just walking through this battlefield, calm and relaxed, as if taking a stroll through the palace garden in Lidus.

  A bandit tried to attack him, only to realize that his arm had fallen to the sand. With a scream, he clutched the stump, but then his cry subsided as his head was separated from his shoulders.

  Hadjar’s movements were quick and subtle. His sword seemed to have disappeared from his hands and only the fact the air itself seemed to cut down bandits showed that the northerner was also contributing to the battle.

  There were no truly strong practitioners among the bandits. They’d captured caravans using cruelty and numbers. Brom had sometimes intervened, being the strongest among them.

  The battle didn’t take long. With four strong practitioners fighting together — all of them able to keep up with a Heaven Soldier — the bandits stood no chance.

  Soon, Hadjar saw crimson soak into the sand. He calmed his frantically beating heart and drowned out the military drums in his ears.

  Suddenly, he noticed that he was squeezing the Moon Army medallion in his free left hand. It would be foolish to believe that he could forget about his past in just a couple of months. He had a long ways to go before he left it behind.

  “I’d hoped for a glorious battle,” Einen sighed, emerging from Hadjar’s shadow, “but it turned into a slaughter.”

  Hadjar just nodded. He felt the same. There’d been no point in hatching a plan — they’d killed the whole camp easily. There was no glory or honor in this.

  “I’ve heard the islanders have strong wine.”

  Einen nodded.

  Soon, Ilmena appeared with a red flash. She’d already found a white caftan and put it on. Frankly, neither Hadjar nor Einen were happy about that.

  Shakh appeared last.

  “47 bandits,” he said. “I bet you killed less.”

  Ilmena snorted and crossed her arms over her chest.

  “52,” the warrior answered proudly. “This proves that your victory in the tournament was a fluke.”

  “You started a few seconds before me,” Shakh shrugged. “Strangers, how many did you get?”

  Hadjar and Einen didn’t answer. They walked past the ‘children’ and moved in almost perfect unison toward the cave that had the bars over it. As their feet touched the sandstone, the islander nudged Hadjar slightly.

  “I’m faster,” he whispered.

  His sandal had touched the cave floor a fraction of a moment earlier.

  “They’re a bad influence on you,” Hadjar smiled.

  Ilmena and Shakh were soon standing next to them. They kept silent and emanated remorse. In the heat of battle, they’d completely forgotten about the people who weren’t in this camp of their own free will.

  With one slash of his sword, Hadjar cut the bars into pieces. With a booming echo, they slid down the gorge.

  “Honorable warriors,” a voice rasped from the darkness. “Water, honorable warriors. Please, give us water.”

  Ilmena whispered something and a red fireball burst from her dagger. It lit up the cave and Hadjar cursed.

  It was as he’d expected, there were slaves inside. Or people who’d been enslaved by the bandits. In the desert, despite all its apparent ‘honesty’, slavery was extremely popular. Slaves were freely traded in special markets. Many of the people who ruled the desert cities owned thousands of slaves. Of course, the bandits hadn’t been able to resist the allure of such a profitable business.

  The cave was full of exhausted, chained up men, women, and children of different ages. Hadjar turned to Shakh, who had a waterskin.

  The boy didn’t move.

  “Think about it, Northerner. Even if we do give them all our water, it’ll only prolong their agony. They won’t survive alone in the desert.”

  “They won’t be alone,” Hadjar answered. “We’ll take them to the caravan.”

  Surprisingly, Hadjar saw absolute confusion in Ilmena and Shakh’ eyes.

  “You’re stupid, Northerner,” the boy continued. “Do you think they have the money to afford travelling in our caravan? Or will one of them be able to do a lot of invaluable work in the near future? We barely have enough food and water for our own needs. Why would we take on a useless burden?”

  “Burden? So these poor people, your own countrymen, are just a burden? Is this what the vaunted camaraderie of the desert amounts to?”

  Shakh only shook his head.

  “You don’t know the desert, stranger, nor its laws. We simply can’t help these slaves.”

  There were only a couple of things that could make Hadjar completely lose his cool: getting slapped and hearing the word ‘slave’.

  Hadjar’s sword was against Shakh’s neck faster than the boy could draw his daggers.

  “Make a choice. Your water or your life, boy.”

  Suddenly, something was poking his side.

  “Choose,” Ilmena hissed in his ear, “your life or the slaves’ lives.”

  “Don’t move, honorable Ilmena,” Einen said, his staff laid across the girl’s shoulder.

  “Follow your own advice, islander,” Shakh grunted. One of his sandy dogs stood on the arch of the cave and a sharp dagger hung over Einen’s head.

  Hadjar’s sword never wavered. The General’s medallion felt like it was glued to his skin. For some reason, Hadjar believed that while the amulet was with him, he wouldn’t die or become a monster.

  Chapter 277

  Hadjar understood Shakh’s point of view, the boy was just being pragmatic. The caravan really couldn’t afford to take on about twenty extra people. Moreover, they wouldn’t be able to work their fee off any time soon.

>   The strongest of the prisoners still looked awful, especially the women. The young and beautiful girls had gotten the worst of it. Some of them, wrapped in rags, were sitting on the floor and swaying from side to side, staring at the wall with empty eyes.

  Hadjar had seen this before, more than once, unfortunately, and wasn’t shocked by it, but Shakh hadn’t. He was trying not to look at the slaves. He was looking at the tattoos on Einen’s head instead, and his sand dog did the same.

  “So it all comes down to money?” Hadjar asked.

  “No one will give them free water or food,” Shakh nodded. “Of course, we are guards ourselves, and earn our coin protecting the caravan. Few people want to risk their lives for those who can’t pay them for it. These people suffered horribly. Nevertheless, it’s their fault. I didn’t harm them. My soul is unstained.”

  It was hard to argue with his logic. Indeed, Shakh had every right to consider himself not responsible for these people’s fate. Their mission had been to destroy the bandits’ camp. They’d done that. Nothing else mattered to the boy.

  “Well,” Hadjar sighed, “if it’s just about the money...”

  He moved his sword away from the boy’s neck. With a clang, he returned it to its scabbard and turned to Ilmena.

  “And just when I was starting to like poking you,” the girl grunted and stopped pointing her daggers at Hadjar’s ribs.

  After that, the sand dog disappeared, and the dagger in its mouth moved over to Shakh’s belt. Einen was the last to lower his weapon, as he was too distrustful and cautious.

  “Can any of you move around on your own?” Hadjar shouted into the cave.

  At first, no one answered, then an old but strong woman got up. Her right eye had been knocked out, and her left hand hung limp at her side, but she looked determined. Her gray hair was gathered in a tight, long braid.

  “I can, stranger,” her voice was stern.

  “There are some bandit corpses below. You can take anything you find on them. Maybe that will be enough to buy you a place in Rahaim’s caravan. It will pass near here in the next few days.”