“We both returned to our homeland and took what was rightfully ours by force.”
Hadjar wasn’t quite sure that the Pearl of the Sands had belonged to Sankesh. He had been Rahaim’s disciple, but not his son, after all.
“I can see you don’t agree with me.”
“I... didn’t...take anything.” Hadjar was still struggling to speak.
However, there was no fear in his eyes. They still shone, radiating an indomitable will. Sankesh, be he a dragon, a demon, or a god — it didn’t matter, Hadjar wouldn’t run from anyone, even if the Jasper Emperor himself opposed him. If he did, he would never be able to take up his sword again. That was his way.
Sankesh noticed this spark of defiance, this steely willpower. For a moment, the King of the Desert felt like he wasn’t looking at a young man, nor at a young warrior who’d just begun to find his own way, but someone who had already become a Wielder of the Sword. It had taken Sankesh almost a century and a half to become the Wielder of the Halberd. And how old was this young man? About thirty? By the Evening Stars, it was like talking to a baby!
For a brief moment, Sankesh saw a prowling, angry dragon in the depths of his blue eyes. The vision vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared. But Sankesh was certain that he would never forget the sight of that dragon inside this man. And he would never admit it, either.
Even after he flayed this ant alive, even after he stripped any memory of him from the history of the world, even after he became a god and burned this insolent man’s homeland to the ground, he wouldn’t forget the look in his eyes.
“What do you want from me, Sankesh?” Hadjar asked.
He’d recovered a little from the recent pressure. Still, that hadn’t even been a direct fight, but only a brief exchange of ‘slaps’.
“What makes you think I want anything from you?”
“We wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
Sankesh’s smile was more like a beast’s feral snarl, but Hadjar had often heard such things said about his own smile.
“Maybe I just wanted to meet her beloved Hadjar.” Sankesh was glad to see the other man deflate slightly. “Arliksha told me that you’d gotten attached to the key. Are you serious, Hadjar Darkhan? Is it really worth a dragon’s time to pay attention to a pathetic creature from an ancient civilization?”
“I can hear the contempt in your voice,” Hadjar said, trying to drive the image of little Serra suffering from his mind.
“By the Evening Stars, I wouldn’t have even remembered Mage City if it hadn’t been for their elixir. In my opinion, dragon, if they went extinct, then they were too weak to fight for their lives. The weak have no place under the sun!”
Sankesh uttered that last sentence with unprecedented ferocity. Hadjar had heard that this was the motto of Sankesh’s Army — ‘Death to the weak, honor to the strong’. However, the King of the Desert wasn’t the author of the phrase. It had been interpreted in various ways in the Empire of Darnassus for centuries.
“And yet…” Hadjar replied calmly.
Sankesh looked him over once again. He wouldn’t have gotten where he was today if he hadn’t torn apart everyone in his way like a wild beast (which many believed him to be). He would certainly skin the man-dragon alive. But it would give him a lot more pleasure if he used him for his own purposes first.
“Join me, Hadjar Darkhan.” Sankesh’s eyes flashed and he held out his hand. Hadjar would need both of his hands to wrap around the King’s wrist. “What are you even doing with those worms? They aren’t worth your time. Under me, you’ll see new horizons of power open up before you. In a month, you’ll be a Heaven Soldier. You’ll get to command a real army. When I’m a god, you’ll be among my Generals.”
“And what do you plan to do?”
“Reshape this world!” Sankesh clenched his fist. The gleam in his eyes caused a slight disturbance in the streams of the World River. “Death to the weak! It’ll be our new law! Anyone that can’t endure the struggle for life has no right to walk under the sun!”
Was it really that simple? Was a maniac wearing a king’s crown sitting in front of him? Hadjar had fought against all kinds of people: generals led by self-interest, cultists who’d sought power, a king hungry for dominance over all, but for the first time in his life, he’d encountered someone who sought destruction for the sake of... destruction. If Sankesh judged people by comparing them to himself, he would always find someone weaker, whom he would then kill for his ‘noble’ goal.
“Sorry, King, but we want different things.”
Sankesh narrowed his eyes.
“Are you refusing my offer, Darkhan? Or do you fear the bracelet on your arm? My Scholars will remove it faster than you can remember the name of the worm that dared to put a collar on a dragon!”
Admittedly, such a proposal still struck a rotten chord in Hadjar’s soul. The temptation to get rid of his amulet early was great. But no greater than…
“No,” Hadjar shook his head. “It’s because of my honor.”
“Honor?” Sankesh snorted. “Don’t be silly, dragon. There’s no such thing as honor in this world. Or valor. Or courage. There are only the strong and the weak! You must know that. We must know that! We who were slaves! Who fought their way to the top by ourselves!”
Hadjar looked into the man’s black eyes. What resided behind that beastly mask and the mountains of muscle? Hadjar suddenly realized that no matter how powerful Sankesh was, he would never be afraid of him, because the King was a man whose fate had been decided by others. The King of the Desert didn’t wear a slave collar, but he still kept one in his heart.
“That is the difference between us, Sankesh.” Hadjar’s voice was calm and his eyes were steady, “even while wearing a slave collar, I wasn’t a slave.”
The fury in the King of the Desert’s eyes could’ve burned entire cities to the ground.
“Olgerd!” An animalistic roar sounded. “Challenge this worm to a duel! I thought I was talking to a dragon, but all I see before me is a slug!”
According to the laws of hospitality, Sankesh couldn’t take Hadjar’s life himself, but he could give someone else a chance to do so through a duel.
A man of a breed that Hadjar had never encountered before emerged from the tent. He was a true northerner.
Chapter 371
A tall, broad-shouldered man came out of Sankesh’s tent, which hadn’t been touched by the recent clash between their two auras. Six and a half feet tall, he was clad in chainmail armor lined with the furs of animals Hadjar didn’t recognize.
Shading his eyes from the sun, he swung his long saber slightly. In his left hand, he held a round wooden shield with an iron centre. Despite their apparent simplicity, these were all artifacts at the Earth level, worse than Mountain Wind and Sankesh’s halberd, but still good weapons.
Olgerd had broad, ugly scars across his chest. On his fair skin, the red and pink streaks were repulsive and eerie.
His rugged face, also scarred and wrinkled, was covered in thick golden hair. It wasn’t blond, like people from Lidus had, but rather the color of rye. His beard and hair had been braided, and metal clip-on balls dangled from the tips of his braids. They were rune-painted and contained no energy, but they clearly had some sacred meaning.
The warrior exuded the aura of a Heaven Soldier at the lowest stage, but it was much... stronger and more complete than the auras of foes Hadjar had fought before. These kinds of details were much more obvious to him now.
Meeting Sankesh’s gaze, Olgerd slammed his fist against his shield.
“Konung Black Bear,” he said in a harsh, snarling language that was a kind of mixture of Lidish and... a more animalistic tongue. “I greet you.”
The Desert King nodded toward Hadjar.
“Hadjar Darkhan.” This time, the warrior from the north of the Empire spoke the desert language with a very strong accent and made some mistakes. “I challenge you to honor duel. You insult master. Have no honor.”
/> “Don’t break your tongue, Olgerd,” Hadjar replied in the warrior’s language. He remembered a little of it. “I can speak the language of the snowy mountains.”
Hadjar hoped he’d spoken correctly. May the ancestors be kind to South Wind and may his rebirth be simple.
Olgerd was a little surprised that the swarthy, short, and frail stranger knew the language of his people, and so was Sankesh.
“You insulted your generous host who gave you shelter in his house. In doing so, you violated the laws of hospitality and dishonored yourself. Will you accept my challenge and seize the chance to wash away your shame with blood?”
The ritual phrase of the challenge sounded different depending on the culture, but the meaning always remained the same. Hadjar didn’t bother trying to defend himself or appeal to Olgerd’s common sense. The warrior had received an order from his konung and, even if he hadn’t agreed with it, he would’ve still carried it out. Had he done anything else, Hadjar would’ve lost his respect for this ferocious man. By the Evening Star, he had no reason not to respect this man who had followed their leader to the other side of the world. Instead of answering him, Hadjar simply unsheathed Mountain Wind.
Olgerd nodded and, holding up his saber, which looked more like a huge cleaver, banged its hilt against his shield. Immediately, the spectators formed a ring around them with a diameter of at least seven yards. No one wanted to get hit by the random echoes of their skirmish. Only Sankesh sat down at his oak table and rested his jaw on his fist again.
Olgerd flexed his shoulders and neck as he circled his opponent. They crunched like millstones. Hadjar, as usual, stood absolutely motionless in the centre of the ring of bodies.
In a single smooth action, he pulled off his turban and wound it around the sleeves of his caftan, tying them down so that they didn’t hamper his movements. His black hair, which had grown back and was now loose around his shoulders, swayed slightly in the wind. The ornaments given to him by the Bedouin shaman tinkled melodiously.
Hadjar sensed Olgerd’s attack before the man even launched it. Hadjar could see the energy flowing through the northerner’s body, how it surged out from his core located in his solar plexus, going to his nodes and meridians, how it then flowed to his legs and arms, amplifying them, then rushed to his sword and shield.
The northerner, roaring like a beast, attacked him. He charged his foe like an angry bear. His movements were so swift he left a blurry afterimage behind him.
The saber’s powerful strike crashed into Hadjar. It was amazing. The Heaven Soldier’s attack was so powerful it could’ve broken the spine of a Terror Wolf.
Hadjar, his sword tucked behind his back so that the tip was only slightly visible, took... a slight half-step to the side. He watched as Olgerd’s saber came crashing down just a few inches from his nose like it was moving in slow motion. The crowd let out a frustrated sigh. It looked like he’d gotten lucky.
With another, identical growl, the northerner turned around, and before the waves of sand he’d kicked up even subsided, he made another slash. Hadjar sensed his movements again. This time, he didn’t even take a step. He simply leaned back to let the blow pass over his head, then straightened and swung his blade slightly.
It was as smooth as a leaf floating on a river, but at the same time, fast enough to leave behind a blurry, undulating trail. Olgerd, sensing the danger, immediately backed away. However, it was too late. The first drops of blood fell to the sand, and with them, the severed braids of his beard. The latter fact made the northerner angry at first, which was then immediately replaced by an icy calm.
“Sorry, warrior.” Olgerd struck his shield with the hilt of his saber.
Hadjar just nodded. He could’ve probably taken advantage of his foe’s arrogance and gone right for the throat. However, he’d come here today with two goals: to learn more about his enemy’s strength... and his own as well.
This time, Olgerd didn’t attack like a bear. His appearance seemed to have changed. He assumed a low stance. His steps were wide and smooth. He squinted slightly and kept moving his nose toward the wind.
Hadjar had seen this before. Once, in the mountains of Balium, he’d witnessed a three-tailed snow leopard hunt. This looked exactly the same. A second later, Hadjar understood his mistake. He’d been relying on his instincts and hadn’t been prepared for Olgerd to hide the flow of his energy from him.
The edge of his blade was encrusted with ice, and the attack he launched from a distance turned into five icy fangs. Hadjar reacted too late to deal with all of them. Moving smoothly but quickly, he managed to cut through three of them. They melted in the air, scattering like snow dust. The fourth only grazed his left shoulder, but the fifth bit into his thigh. If he hadn’t used a Technique for Strengthening the Body, such a blow would’ve simply severed Hadjar’s leg. As it was, it had lodged itself in his muscles.
With a snarl, Hadjar tore the bloody icicle out of his leg and threw it on the snowy ground. Now it was his turn to beat his fist against his heart and for Olgerd to nod.
Tornadoes of energy that were the color of steel, sky, and snow whirled around them. The real fight had begun.
Chapter 372
The northerner swung his saber, crouched abruptly, and thrust it into the ground. Waves of icy energy spread out from it. The sand gradually crusted over with ice. Copies of Olgerd’s saber shot out from it, looking like sharp spikes made of crystal-clear ice and each was as large as a young tree.
Unlike with the similar Technique that the emerald wolf had used, these sabers didn’t ripple, allowing one to predict where they’d attack from next. They simply popped out of the layer of ice with which Olgerd had covered their entire fighting area when they struck.
Each time a saber appeared, Hadjar barely managed to avoid the deadly ice at the last moment. Relying on his great reflexes, he dodged, sliding across the ice on his scuffed boots.
The northerner growled something menacing and pulled his saber out of the ice. Hadjar almost stumbled into an ice spike that appeared suddenly. He realized then that he’d never seen such a Technique before. A Technique capable of functioning and attacking even without being directly controlled by its owner.
Olgerd chuckled and shook his shoulders slightly. Taking a deep breath, he brushed the wet flakes of snow and ice out of his long hair.
Slamming his saber against his shield once again, he assumed a low stance. This time, his movements weren’t just fast, they were like lightning. He wasn’t running, he wasn’t flying, he was simply pushing off the ground and sliding across the ice.
Crossing the distance to his opponent in a split second, he slashed down. Hadjar blocked the attack above his head. The force of the blow buried his feet nearly ankle-deep in the cracked ice.
The northerner’s smile widened, and Hadjar guessed he’d made a mistake. Not wanting to find out what happens next, he blurred into a shadowy form as he used the Six Ravens Technique, and then leapt back. As he flew over the ice, he could feel another ice saber pop out from where he’d just been standing.
Hadjar had acted quickly. But not quickly enough.
His left leg hurt like it had been submerged in a frozen lake. The pain wasn’t severe, but when Hadjar landed and tried to move his injured leg, he could do so only after his third attempt. The wound left behind by the ice saber didn’t bleed like the wounds inflicted by the emerald wolf’s Technique had. There was a long cut just below his ankle. Its smooth edges, covered in ice, seemed to curl inward.
His Technique for Strengthening the Body was working overtime, using up a lot of his much-needed energy. However, Hadjar felt that if he stopped the regeneration process for even a moment, his left leg would turn into a lifeless ice statue.
Limping, he gradually regained control of his injured leg. The northerner’s Techniques were similar to a poison. An ice poison.
Olgerd wasn’t going to waste this opportunity. He charged in. This time, Hadjar was prepared for anything. The ice
sabers were still popping out chaotically around him, and he also had to fight off the northerner’s attacks. His foe glided across the ice, attacking Hadjar with surprising agility and speed. Despite his massive constitution, he was a nimble and cunning fighter. Focusing on quick hit-and-run attacks, he often retreated after only a couple of swings, allowing his ice sabers to occupy Hadjar long enough for him to get some distance between them.
“Damn it!” Hadjar cursed.
Seeing a gap in the pattern of the ice sabers, he jumped, stumbling, to the side. He sheathed his sword and put his hand on its hilt.
“Strong Wind!” Putting almost a third of his energy into the Technique, Hadjar lunged forward sharply.
The energy of the New Soul stage merged with his Wielder energy. Now that Hadjar could sense the energy flows much more accurately, the appearance of this first stance had changed. If Traves had once been able to summon a torrent of cutting wind to grind a stone to dust, what Hadjar produced now was more like a tsunami.
A roaring wave of blue, steel-tinged wind swept across the icy wasteland. It crushed the ice sabers in its path. It tore up the layer of ice covering the ground, leaving deep cracks and holes behind, through which sand began to flow, freed from its ice prison.
Olgerd didn’t even flinch. He held up his shield and shouted: “Rogue Bear!”
The runes on the iron core of his shield flashed. The roar of the wind was drowned out by the roar of a bear awakened in the middle of winter. A huge brown mouth with icy eyes and fangs burst out from the northerner’s shield. It grabbed the wind, pinning it to the ground and tearing into it.
Hadjar didn’t keep the Technique going. He’d achieved his objective — cutting his way through the ice to Olgerd. Unfortunately, the path was thin and clearly visible. Hardened by a hundred battles, the northerner would easily guess where the next attack would come from. Hadjar managed to blur into the shadow of the Seven Ravens, but there was no groan or blood to accompany his attack, and only sparks fell to the sand.
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