Only then did Hadjar notice the slight strangeness of such a scene. He wondered if most small, eccentric, wayward children often obeyed their parents so easily. Moreover, Serra’s behavior didn’t look like simple obedience, but complete submission. Hadjar shook his head, driving away such thoughts.
Of course, Einen was rather paranoid. They’d been travelling with the caravan for almost five months now. In all that time, neither Zurkh nor Serra had aroused any suspicion. However, the islander’s words and the stone he’d just gotten...
Hadjar’s stream of thought was interrupted by Kharad, who was sitting on his Desert Raven. The eerie, overgrown chicken annoyed Hadjar with its sharp beak and claws. After the battle, Kharad had taken a bit to recover — he’d lost his right ear and two toes on his right foot. He’d been hit by the archers or something like that.
“Northerner, Rahaim wants to see you.”
Hadjar exchanged a glance with Einen.
“You can take the bald guy too,” Kharad added and, turning around, spurred his mount toward the front of the caravan.
Without saying a word, both Hadjar and Einen checked whether their sandals were properly tied and whether they had enough water. With these caravaneers, they never knew when they might have to flee.
They followed the chief of the scouts, running after him. He, as usual, didn’t care whether they kept up with him or not. He rushed past stagecoaches and carts, squinting at the guards stationed there. They reciprocated. Few people loved Kharad, and Hadjar could understand why.
Shakh and Ilmena soon joined them. As usual, they were arguing. Even while they ran, they managed to exchange caustic remarks. After visiting the sheikh’s ‘paradise’, Shakh’s ardor had faded away, giving way to hatred and rejection.
The lead stagecoach of the caravan looked the same as before: a massive wagon on twelve wheels, white cloth serving as its walls, and folding stairs leading up to the door.
Climbing inside, Hadjar glanced around at the familiar sight. He was once again attending a war council, he was sure of it. Rahaim was sitting on some pillows behind the map. The old man kept asking more and more questions.
Shakar sat near him. Only four months had passed since they’d first met, but Hadjar was sure that he would now be able to defeat him. Shakh, having given up on Ilmena, sat down next to his relative. There were other people there as well, men and women Hadjar didn’t know.
“Hello, Hadjar Darkhan,” Rahaim greeted him, gesturing at the free pillows lying around in an invitation for him to take a seat.
When Einen and Hadjar sat down, the caravan’s owner continued. “I see that your time hasn’t been spent in vain, Northern General. You’ve become stronger and... More integrated.”
Hadjar noticed the quick glance the old man threw at his tattoo, which was hidden by his caftan. How did the old man even know about that? Bah! Only demons could understand a Peak Heaven Soldier who stood on the edge of becoming a Spirit Knight.
“May the Evening Stars illuminate your path, Honorable Rahaim,” Hadjar bowed his head. “May I ask why you summoned me here?”
There was only utter silence in the stagecoach. Einen’s and Hadjar’s hands rested near their weapons. Just like the hands of everyone else present.
Chapter 318
The tense atmosphere lasted until Rahaim, smiling broadly, moved his hand away from his weapon. The other warriors followed his example. The last to reign in their energy and put their hands on their knees were Einen and Hadjar.
“I understand why you distrust us, honorable Hadjar and Einen,” Rahaim nodded. Despite everything, he was always courteous, even to those who had a lower rank than him and weren’t even close to his level of power. “But you must understand us as well. No one reveals their secrets to random strangers.”
After thinking about it a little, Hadjar nodded. He couldn’t blame the caravaneers for being cautious. He had also hidden a lot from his friends... The old man’s actions seemed quite logical, to be honest.
“What made you change your mind, honorable Rahaim?”
The old man’s gaze met Hadjar’s. Like last time, it was difficult to find even a shred of emotion in the older man’s eyes. It was like peering into a calm lake in an attempt to glimpse the future in the water.
Hadjar couldn’t imagine how many millennia this ‘harmless’ old man had spent traversing the vast Sea of Sand. The most terrifying fact was that he was still alive. Despite the presence of entities and people far more powerful than him, Rahaim had kept going and silently prospered. As Hadjar had learned during his adventures, the most dangerous people weren’t the ones who shouted loudly, but those who stayed silent. Rahaim was one of them. By the Evening Stars, the old man was more dangerous than even sheikh Umar had been, Hadjar was sure of it...
“A lot of things, Northerner,” Rahaim answered evasively. He adjusted his caftan, tightening his belt. Like every other old man, he was feeling cold, even in the desert. “Both you and the honorable Einen have served the caravan with exemplary dedication. You’re stronger than most of the guards and, possibly, equal to Shakar...”
The chief of security had enough self-respect to agree with this statement, but not his nephew. Shakh touched the hilt of his daggers, which caused tension to fill the stagecoach once more. Only his uncle’s strict look stopped the boy from doing something monumentally stupid.
“...The battle against the bandits in the Sandstone Gorge,” Rahaim continued, pretending he hadn’t noticed Shakh’s display. Hadjar was certain he had, but was being diplomatic. “The fact that you decided to help the captives who’d been strangers to you, but close to our own sun. I was moved by your actions then. And one more thing — the Bedouin spirits gave you a Name. Finally, you and Einen fought extraordinarily well during the battle for Kurkhadan. These four months have shown that you can be trusted-”
“Honorable Rahaim!” A man wearing a black caftan stood up. Hadjar had seen him only twice before and he’d been surprised by the color both times. Usually, desert dwellers preferred wearing lighter colors that helped deflect the sun. “Once again, I ask that you reconsider. I’m not so sure that these strangers need to know about the purpose of our campaign. They could be Sankesh’s spies!”
A wave of approving whispers came from those present. Nobody wanted to risk their lives by letting the strangers in on the secret.
“It seems to me, honorable Arukh, that we have no other choice,” Rahaim replied, sighing sadly. “Or do you know another Named One that we can trust?”
“As you wish, Rahaim, I won’t argue any further, but I’m against it,” the man bowed low, saluted in the local manner and, after giving the two outsiders a suspicious look, left the stagecoach. After his departure, it became easier to breathe. What a strange, creepy man!
“Pay no attention to Arukh,” Rahaim said immediately. His thick, gray hair fell across his narrow shoulders. He looked more like a sage than a caravaneer. “He means you no harm, he’s only worried about the success of our mission.”
“Rahaim,” Einen spoke suddenly. “We would still like to know what that mission is.”
The old man nodded at the islander and smiled slightly. He turned to Hadjar and tilted his head curiously, wondering if he’d figure it out.
“Are you serious?” Hadjar asked once he guessed it.
“That’s right, Northerner,” Rahaim nodded. “We’re moving toward Mage City.”
Curses in different languages flooded the stagecoach. Shakh and Ilmena remembered their ancestors. Einen said something about the Great Turtle and Hadjar used Nero’s favorite phrase, which his friend had used when talking about sour wine, something he’d hated as much as women who were inept in bed.
“But that’s just a myth!” Ilmena shouted. “A bedtime story that mothers tell their children!”
“No, my dear Ilmena,” Shakar objected wearily. “It isn’t a myth. It’s an incredibly old tale. There are no people alive who still remember the splendor of that city, but it�
��s real.”
“We might as well also chase after the Seventh Heaven map,” Shakh snorted, “since, hey, if Mage City isn’t a fairytale, the map must be real, too.”
Hadjar’s head snapped up. He knew for certain that the gods weren’t made up. The body of their messenger still lay in his wallet, which was compelling evidence.
“And yet, we know for sure that this city exists,” steel could be heard in Rahaim’s voice. “I can’t tell you everything, but this information is as reliable as my own sword.”
This expression invited anyone who still had doubts to test that very sword’s reliability for themselves.
“Let me clarify something,” Hadjar said while scratching his nose. “Are we travelling to a mythical city instead of the Empire?”
“No, honorable Hadjar. We’ll still go to the Empire, we’re just taking a longer route.”
“Why would we risk it?” Hadjar nodded at himself and Einen.
Suddenly, an almost childish excitement flashed in Rahaim’s calm eyes.
“For countless riches,” he began to list, ‘”artifacts of unprecedented power, vast and ancient troves of knowledge. But, most importantly, according to the legends, for an elixir. An elixir the gods are said to drink once every millennium, during their Feast of the Cherry Moon.”
“And what does this elixir do?” Hadjar asked.
Everyone turned to Hadjar and looked at him like he was the dirtiest and most uncouth barbarian to ever exist.
“It turns you into a god,” they all responded.
Hadjar’s heart skipped a beat, and the playful wind brought a distant echo of the words “Silly General”.
Chapter 319
“A god?” Hadjar asked. “That’s impossible. I’m ready to believe in the existence of an ancient Mage City and the secret Techniques that can be found there. It sounds believable, but an elixir that turns people into gods...”
“Barbarian,” they chorused once more.
Hadjar was used to such dismissive remarks. He knew that Lidus had no real knowledge about the history of the world or the path of cultivation. In Balium, ‘The Black Gates’ sect, whose library had been recklessly burned down by the Moon soldiers during the battle, had controlled all the knowledge. They had never really had a chance to learn much about either subject.
“What do you know about the Seventh Heaven, Northerner?” Rahaim asked the question in a quiet, calm voice. It easily drowned out the mocking whispers. Upon hearing the question, Hadjar froze. He’d collected his information about the realm of the gods bit by bit. He’d listened attentively to even the most delusional and incredible tales and legends. He’d figured it was the only way he could hope to find the Jasper Emperor and make him pay for his mistakes.
“According to the legends, the gods live there,” Hadjar began. He understood that, even if he told them absolutely everything he knew about the Seventh Heaven, those present would only snort contemptuously at him. “Their Magistrate is located there, and it’s where the book in which the fate of the world is recorded is stored. I’ve heard that amazing fruits and flowers grow in their gardens. A single seed is enough to make a lake of the tastiest wine imaginable.”
Rahaim and the others nodded.
“Have you heard the legend of the Flower Feast, which the gods arrange once every thousand years?” The old man asked patiently.
Hadjar honestly admitted that he hadn’t heard about it before. More than anyone else, Ilmena was surprised to hear that, as she was sure that any self-respecting mother would’ve told her child this tale at bedtime.
In Lidus, children, especially boys, were told another tale as ancient as the world, a horror story about the Black General. Hadjar had never really liked that story because the main character died a very tragic and stupid death.
“Then I will have to be a storyteller for a little while,” Rahaim smiled and moved a hookah closer to himself. Taking the pipe, he inhaled deeply, then exhaled a cloud of thick, fragrant smoke and began his story. Despite the fact that the others had already heard this tale, they still listened to him attentively.
“The legend begins in a faraway and, surprisingly, very ordinary land. Its name was erased from memory and chronicles since the characters in it lived so long ago that ravines have turned into mountains since then, rivers — into forests, lakes — into mountain ranges, and plains — into oceans.
The world has truly changed a lot since then. It is always shifting and expanding. However, people still remembered the ancient tragedy. Sometimes, it was even performed on the stages of the imperial theaters. A variety of interpretations were either met with applause or booed off the stage.
It all started in the house of an ordinary peasant, back when people didn’t know about gunpowder and couldn’t tame animals. So, it must’ve happened millions of years ago.
As soon as a newborn boy let out his first cry, his parents realized that he would never be anything special. The boy grew up to be quite an ordinary child: average height, average physique, and even an average talent for cultivation. His appearance was pleasant, but not handsome. The girls were never crazy about him, although they liked him. Or maybe not. Maybe the boy grew up to be handsome, easily breaking many a girl’s heart-”
“Rahaim,” Ilmena interjected. “That version of the story is for girls only.”
“Well, yes,” the old man smiled a little cheekily. “I apologize. He wasn’t handsome. Anyway…
The boy grew up like everyone else. He got his fair share of broken bones and bruises from fights and got his heart broken several times during celebrations. He didn’t serve in the army of the local baron. There was no need for extra swords and spears as times were peaceful. The millennia of endless struggle for power hadn’t come yet. Few practitioners walked around the world and legends were made up about them. True cultivators were equated with gods, and nobody knew that the real gods were idly watching what was happening in the world.
One day, the young man packed a bag and kissed his mother goodbye, setting off on a journey.
At that moment, one of the gods was looking into the Mirror of Truth — an artifact that allowed him to observe any person, no matter where they were, no matter what spells or Techniques hid them.
Derger, the God of War, was bored. Observing the endless expanses of the world wasn’t helping him stave off his boredom. Suddenly, the rapidly shifting scenes in the Mirror froze, and the great god, who had fought against unthinkable monsters before the first people had even appeared, whooped in admiration.
In a small town on the outskirts of a small country, a girl had been born. She had been born and let loose her first cry at the same time as the young man who had left his home earlier in the story. Some versions claim they were born in the same second. As soon as she’d screamed, her father and mother, the rulers of the town, had immediately realized that they would have an amazing daughter. And so it was...
She grew up in luxury, but her heart didn’t become callous, nor was she spoiled. She preferred simple dresses to beautiful and expensive outfits. She sometimes even sewed them herself. Her old nanny had taught her how to do so as she’d looked after the girl. At the age of ten, they changed their roles. Now the girl looked after the nanny, and the old woman taught the girl. Of course, they kept this a secret from the girl’s parents, as they wouldn’t have enjoyed paying for just that. The girl’s heart was softer than the first snows and warmer than a ray of sunshine in the summer. She always addressed the nanny as ‘Granny’ and nothing else.
Granny taught her how to dance, nothing vulgar or unrestrained, but how to just enjoy life and music. Through dance, the girl learned to love life in all its forms. She would just laugh when she hurt her knees while running with her friends. She smiled at street musicians and always threw several coins into their hats.
The girl became a young woman, so beautiful that her smile could stop any war and her sad sighs could incite a bloody battle. However, she didn’t break a single heart. She l
oved everyone and everything around her, radiating happiness and a true, honest appreciation for them.
Flowers bloomed in her presence, birds landed as close as they could to sing their best songs, and animals rubbed against her hands and feet. At the age of sixteen, she continued to wear simple dresses, dance, and laugh merrily.
Derger, whose hands were so bloody that the stain was already reaching his heart, felt something burning on his cheeks for the first time ever. He touched them and found tears on his fingers. A couple of drops fell on the Mirror of Truth, turning into rain over the young man who was walking into the girl’s town.”
“Undoubtedly, honorable Rahaim,” Hadjar bowed slightly. “I haven’t listened to a storyteller more skilled than you, but I still don’t understand how this all relates to the Flower Feast and the elixir.”
The old man breathed out a cloud of smoke.
“Young people... You’re always in such a hurry... Listen carefully, Northerner, and you’ll find out. All in good time. There is plenty of time for you to listen to me. Moreover, there’s time for suffering as well. You’ll hear about suffering soon enough.”
Chapter 320
“When the young man reached the town gates, he immediately faced a harsh reality. Back in his village, he’d been treated like a native. Sometimes, he had fought and quarreled with others, but in a ‘family-like’ way. Here, the guards demanded an inconceivably large entry fee. They clearly didn’t mind robbing a naive simpleton and laughed in his face.
The young man didn’t argue with them, as he couldn’t argue with tall men in armor and wielding weapons. The choice was very simple: either he would part with all the money he’d earned doing hard labor in the fields and at the mill, or return to his village. Soon enough, the young man entered the town without any money, but with a proud smile on his face. He’d easily overcome the first obstacle he’d encountered and now the future seemed bright to him.”
Dragon Heart: Sea of Sand. LitRPG Wuxia Series: Book 4 Page 28