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

by Kirill Klevanski

  “Bright?” Einen repeated quietly. “In our version of the story, they broke his legs and threw him in a ditch.”

  Rahaim shrugged, “The stories on the islands are always retold through the prism of the thousands of travelers walking through your lands... or rather, waters.”

  After answering the islander, the old man continued. “Wearing only simple bast shoes, a patched shirt, and with a bag over his shoulder, the young man went to visit the best potter in town. Luckily for him, the young man’s father had helped this artisan a long time ago. He, without much enthusiasm, accepted the young man as an apprentice as a way to pay off his debt.

  Six months later, he’d changed his tune. Now the young man was a welcome guest in his house, slept in the attic, and even had breakfast with his master. No other apprentice had been granted such an honor. Even though the young man didn’t have any special talents and didn’t look like much, his hands were golden. Clay and the potter’s wheel were like siblings to him.

  The items coming out from under his fingers were soon famous throughout the town. No one knew that the young man was the one who made them, everyone just thought that the master had finally advanced to the next stage in his craft.

  The potter didn’t have any sons, only two daughters, who, like their father, soon considered the young man their kin. He spent all his time in the workshop. His soul sang and blossomed as he’d finally found a craft that made him feel pride at his work and that he loved doing.

  Through a small window looking out at the pavement outside, he sometimes looked at the town fairs. On rare occasions, he would pause his work and look at the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. Her simple dresses seemed to sway in an invisible breeze. Her dark, thick hair floated through the air as if through water. Her clear, emerald-green eyes were like a fire that he was drawn to with the intensity of a moth.

  The young man had heard that a girl of unprecedented beauty lived in this town, but had never searched for her. He knew that someone like her would never look at someone like him. He didn’t need her anyway, only the one who danced at the town fairs and whose eyes had captured him.

  A year and a half passed. One bright spring day, when even the eternally free wind could fall in love, someone knocked on the door of the workshop. The young woman stood in the doorway wearing a simple dress, barefoot, and with a basket in her hands. The artisan wasn’t there, he’d left to go the market. So, the young man opened the door and froze like-“

  “Like someone listening to this story,” Rahaim almost laughed, looking at Hadjar’s face.

  “Please continue, honorable Rahaim,” Hadjar nodded encouragingly. He felt like it was vital for him to hear the end of this story.

  “In that moment, the young man realized that he could no longer live without those green eyes. The girl realized that she could no longer live without those hands, which were so strong and gentle all at once.

  She ordered a simple jug, thinking that he was an ordinary potter. The young man worked on her order for a week, without sleep and rest, not feeling any fatigue. He made a jug that even royals would’ve been honored to own. He carefully wrapped it in some rags, hid it in his shoulder bag, and rushed to see the girl.

  He didn’t know that she was the daughter of the town’s rulers. When he reached her family’s magnificent house, he didn’t hesitate. Jumping over the fence, he met watchdogs along the way, but they just licked his hands and poked their noses into his legs.

  Flowers bloomed under the young man’s feet, and birds landed closer to sing their songs. His heart was burning, aflame with spring love.”

  “In our version, it’s not his heart that’s hot,” Einen whispered in Hadjar’s ear.

  “Climbing up the ivy that encircled the walls of the house, the young man couldn’t think about anything but those deep, green eyes. Alas, at that moment, Derger was watching his beloved mortal. He easily saw the red thread of fate that bound the lovers. Created by the god’s anger and rage, a storm began in the mortal realm. A flash of lightning blinded the young man for a moment. With a cry, he fell to the ground, breaking both the jug and his back.

  The girl didn’t hear his scream because of the thunder, but still felt like something was wrong. She ran down to the garden and saw the wounded young man.

  Nobody knew how she dragged him into her house, carried him up to her room, and nursed him for a week. Why didn’t her parents find out about him? Why didn’t Derger do anything?”

  “He will do something…” Shakh sighed.

  “When all these secrets came to light, the girl’s parents learned about the commoner with whom their daughter had shared a bed. There was a scandal, and he was exiled.

  The young man put on his simple bast shoes, canvas pants, and shirt. He thanked his master and his daughters, took his tools, some money, and hit the road. His broken heart seemed to be constantly crying out.

  Leaving the town walls behind, he turned to cast a farewell glance at it, but met deep, green eyes instead.

  The girl said goodbye to the nanny who had taken care of her and then hugged her lover. Together, they traveled far away from the village and the town. They built a house in the forest, where they lived for several years. She looked after cows and chickens. He made pots, jugs, and utensils and sold them to the occasional buyers that came from the surrounding villages.

  Despite their humble life, they were happy.

  Derger, watching his beloved, saw her magnificent posture get replaced by lowered shoulders and calluses appear on her tender hands. She rarely danced, preferring to sit still, hugging the simple potter.

  The God of War couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t endure seeing her like this.

  He harnessed his war chariot drawn by a dozen winged fire dogs. The lashes of his whip were like thunder and the dogs’ howling was like a storm; sparks flew from the wheels of the chariot like lightning bolts.

  Defying the Jasper Emperor’s ban, Derger descended from the Heaven. He took the girl of unprecedented beauty back with him. What could the simple potter do? Nothing. He screamed and cried. When his tears ran out, he cried blood. When his blood ran out, his very soul followed after it. When it too disappeared, he cried an inky, dark substance that was too horrific to describe.

  Nobody knows what happened to the young man. Maybe he died, or he went to look for power capable of killing a god, or perhaps he sold his soul to the Emperor of Demons.

  The girl didn’t, couldn’t love Derger. He, realizing that she would never love him back, turned the most beautiful of women into the most beautiful of statues with a wave of his hand. It still stands in his palace to this day, and he sometimes talks to it, reminding her of her lover. He likes to watch her suffer and shed tears.”

  “And what does all of this have to do with the elixir and the Flower Feast, anyway?” Hadjar asked.

  “There should always be balance in the world, Northerner,” Rahaim put down his hookah. “Derger disobeyed the Jasper Emperor’s order and that gave another goddess the right to intervene. The Goddess of Love, using the Jasper Emperor’s power and the flowers from his garden, brews the elixir capable of turning the person who drinks it into a god. She does so because only a god can break the chains of Derger’s spell and free the girl. Once in a millennium, she throws the Flower Feast, expecting the simple potter to come and attend it.”

  Realizing that this was the end of the story, Hadjar just shook his head. Had his instincts failed him and had everything he’d just heard been merely a tale for naive children?

  Suddenly, the wind whispered “Silly General”. That made him reconsider.

  Chapter 321

  “Well, let’s presume,” Hadjar nodded, “that this elixir really exists. I would wager there isn’t enough for everyone.”

  Rahaim immediately tensed. The storyteller disappeared, turning into the experienced Heaven Soldier who had managed to outlast fighters that had been many times stronger than him. For thousands of years, the merciless sun of t
he Sea of Sand had been caressing his skin, and yet he still hadn’t visited his forefathers’ house.

  “You’re right, Northerner,” the caravaneer looked like a desert wolf ready to pounce. This used to be something that terrified Hadjar, but now his chest had the mark of the Dark Storm tribe on it. “I hope you and the honorable Einen don’t end up having unwelcome ideas and plans.”

  The old man took out a crystal, faceted bowl from his pocket, covered with a lid and sealed with luminous hieroglyphs. Black liquid sloshed around inside it. Hadjar had already seen this kind of liquid, and so, after grabbing his blade, he jumped to his feet and staggered back. The rest of the warriors present bared their weapons. Multicolored vortexes of energy spun in the stagecoach. The practitioners walking around outside recoiled — they could hardly breathe because of the concentration of power bearing down on them.

  Hadjar pointed his sword at the desert dwellers. Einen stood nearby, shoulder to shoulder with him, armed with his spear-staff.

  “Calm down,” Rahaim’s eyes flashed.

  Hadjar felt something strange. It was as if a thin needle had been pushed into his heart and someone had gotten it through a certain point on his body almost painlessly. He felt a terrible weakness in his arms and legs. Shocked at what was going on, Hadjar collapsed to the floor, and his sword thundered as it struck the boards of the stagecoach. Einen’s staff rolled to a stop beside it. The rest of the warriors also fell.

  In the end, out of all those present, only Rahaim remained able to speak and use energy. Whitish strands emanated from him, piercing everyone’s chest. Although he was just a ‘simple’ Heaven Soldier at the Peak stage, sheikh Umar and the bandits’ leader looked like small children compared to him. Raw power wasn’t the most important strength in this world. Over the course of thousands of years, Rahaim must’ve gained a lot of experience and knew secrets and Techniques so potent that he was much more powerful than a Spirit Knight was at the Initial stage.

  “I hope that we can all continue our friendly conversation,” an undisguised order could be heard in the caravaneer’s voice. By the Evening Stars, no one wanted to argue with him.

  The whitish strands disappeared and Hadjar eagerly breathed in the dry air just to check if he could control his body once again.

  He carefully sheathed Mountain Wind. Hadjar wasn’t afraid of Rahaim, as it was fairly useless to be afraid of someone who, with a single thought, could incapacitate twenty-five warriors, six of which were equal in power to true cultivators at the initial stage and one who was an actual adept.

  “Honorable Rahaim,” Kharad bowed his head, “you are, as always, powerful and wise.”

  “Please forgive me for my thoughtless outburst,” Shakar, pressing his nephew down to the floor, also touched the boards with his forehead. Apparently, they weren’t just a boss and employee.

  “Nonsense,” Rahaim shrugged.

  Einen looked at his friend questioningly. The islander couldn’t understand why the hot-tempered barbarian had reacted so violently.

  “Where did you get... that?” Hadjar asked, pointing at the bowl.

  “Once upon a time, I visited the northern lands, Hadjar,” Rahaim answered, concealing the poison of ‘The Black Gates’ sect in the folds of his caftan once more. “These 120 drops of Black Smoke cost me a fair sum.”

  Goosebumps ran up and down Hadjar’s back. He remembered quite well what one drop had done to his friend and brother, Nero. He remembered perfectly how the Spirit Knight, Raven Wing, had received only ten drops, which, according to the Patriarch of the sect, were capable of poisoning a whole city the size of the capital of Lidus.

  What would happen if the old man utilized so much poison? It would easily cover a territory equal to a full barony or a county. It would easily end anyone who was at a lower level than Spirit Knight. Even a Knight, if they didn’t use some form of medicine, would have to lay in bed for a month at least.

  The Patriarch hadn’t been a talented fighter, but he had been an excellent alchemist. Fortunately, he had known only a few powerful recipes, otherwise, the neural network wouldn’t have been able to help Hadjar eke out a victory. A poisoned dagger or mighty sword was an ever popular choice for warriors.

  “This is my insurance against… superfluous ideas,” Rahaim added, gesturing to a pendant on his neck. Hadjar recognized the antidote for the poison. The same one he’d spent a year with the Shadow of the Immortal to earn. “Everyone present, except for the two of you, have already agreed to give me the elixir. Now it’s your turn...”

  Hadjar looked into Rahaim’s calm, gray eyes. For thousands of years, he hadn’t been able to take that crucial step forward and cross the line separating a Heaven Soldier from a Spirit Knight. The older one got, the more difficult each subsequent step on the path of cultivation became. Rahaim was already at the very end of his road. He could see the light in the windows of his ancestral house. The old man was dying... If, somewhere in the near future, he couldn’t reach the next level of cultivation, his body would die. So, to Rahaim, the elixir meant more than divinity, it was his only chance to escape death’s embrace.

  Judging by how carefully Kharad and Shakar were guarding their possible escape route, the old man didn’t want to take any risks. He wouldn’t have normally told Hadjar about his plans, but it had become clear that they needed a Named One. Oddly enough, Hadjar still didn’t really understand why it was such a rarity to have a proper Name.

  “Honorable Rahaim,” Einen, who also noticed the movement behind him, said to Rahaim. “My uncouth friend spoke poorly. We just wanted to know what we stand to gain from participating in your adventurous enterprise. There is only one elixir, but there are enough soldiers in Sankesh’s army to cover a thousand dunes.”

  When it was required, the islander could be surprisingly eloquent. The years spent hashing out trade agreements had taught him well.

  “The remaining treasures and secrets of Mage City don’t interest me,” Rahaim hid the antidote, glancing at Hadjar. “They will be divided according to all the proper customs between everyone who takes part in opening the city.”

  It suddenly dawned on Hadjar. A hunch flashed through his mind, leaving behind an unpleasant feeling.

  “How many people from the caravan will be participating in this... enterprise of yours?”

  “About three hundred of them,” Rahaim’s lips twitched slightly, and a hint of mockery flashed in his eyes. “The rest are simple travelers. By the Evening Stars, I’ll bring them to the Empire, as stated in the contract, but nothing else.”

  A contract which said that the trip might last an indefinite amount of time because of various circumstances. It was a fairly standard practice for caravans and travelers didn’t pay much attention to it. They were more concerned about their safety, not the fact that, instead of three years, the trip would take seven.

  “As I see it,” Hadjar squinted at Rahaim’s whitish strands of energy and Shakar’s broadsword, “we don’t have much choice in the matter. So I agree.”

  Einen simply nodded and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Then I won’t keep you any longer,” the old man sounded relieved. “You can return to your duties. We’ll get to Mage City in about a year.”

  Hadjar and Einen left the stagecoach in silence, pondering what had just happened.

  Chapter 322

  Having waited for his turn, Hadjar accepted a bowl of fragrant chowder and a piece of bread and stepped aside. All of this happened on the go — the caravan was slightly behind schedule and therefore wasn’t stopping anytime soon. A cart with rows of huge barrels full of prepared food moved along slowly. The cooks poured the chowder into outstretched bowls. Some of the passengers climbed into their carts and ate the surprisingly tasty chowder in there. Others, such as Hadjar, ate without stopping. Nobody wanted to lag behind.

  On this clear evening, the caravan looked like a small snake crawling along the crest of a shining, yellow wave of sand. Dunes and sand were everyw
here: to the right and to the left, as well as under their feet. Above them was black velvet with multicolored precious stones scattered across its surface. That evening, by the Evening Stars, nothing could irritate Hadjar more than the damned sand. Annoyed to the point of anger, Hadjar even kicked it.

  “I don’t think that the sand has wronged you, Northerner,” Einen said, emerging from the shadows while also holding a bowl in his hands. He ate in a strange manner: first, he drank the bouillon, and only then did he eat the meat, using only his hands. It was a custom from his homeland.

  “Do you think I should go and kick Rahaim instead?” Hadjar snapped.

  “That’s also not the brightest idea you’ve ever had,” Einen smiled slightly. His face looked the same as ever outwardly, but Hadjar had gotten used to identifying his emotions. “I still can’t understand what Technique he used.” Hadjar glanced at Einen curiously.

  Children ran past them. Their parents shouted after them, warning them not to run with bowls in their hands. Of course, the little devils completely ignored them.

  Behind them, several stagecoaches down, Serra sat quietly on the seat of her own coach. She was looking through a book and didn’t even glance at her peers as they played. Could an ordinary child truly do anything like that?

  “Don’t look at her so intently, Northerner. People might get the wrong idea.”

  Hadjar couldn’t discern if the islander was joking or actually warning him.

  “Don’t presume that I know everything about the path of cultivation,” Einen chewed on the meat in his bowl as he spoke. Using two fingers, he kept fishing it out of the bowl and putting it into his mouth, constantly wiping his chin with the back of his hand. “Rahaim has lived as long as a Heaven Soldier can. Surely he has more knowledge than most, if not all, libraries.”

  “What he did was creepy.”