Dragon Heart: Iron Will. LitRPG Wuxia Series: Book 2

by Kirill Klevanski

  “Die with honor,” he replied, and immediately found himself on the snow-covered plateau above ground.

  The Shadow looked at the place where his ex-disciple had stood.

  Why did they need this path of cultivation? Why were so many Techniques invented and artifacts forged?

  He’d been so wrong…

  Maybe that's why he’d never been able to progress any further. Had he lacked the profound knowledge and understanding required to do so?

  As Hadjar marked the entrance to the tomb on his map, he didn’t know that there would soon be nothing left there.

  The Spirit took one last look at his palace. He raised his sword and swung it. The fiery core split and the stones of the cracked vault began to crumble. They rained down, breaking the columns and statues, burying his ‘heritage’ beneath them.

  The path of cultivation had never led to power. He’d been foolish to ever believe it did.

  Unfortunately, in order to understand this truth, the Immortal had had to wait for his disciple to arrive: the weak, almost mortal warrior, who still understood much more than the great swordsman ever had. Even though he didn’t realize it yet.

  Covering his eyes, the Spirit stood in the middle of his small, personal apocalypse. All his imaginary achievements were collapsing around him, but he was smiling. He lingered, faded, and then finally found his true death, but still, he smiled. He finally understood what he’d been looking for all these thousands of years.

  He had found the meaning of his life.

  Even if he'd done so after his death.

  “Good luck, General Hadjar,” echoed across the snowcapped mountain ranges.

  Chapter 124

  Elaine, the daughter of King Primus, sat in her tower by the window. She was not imprisoned and wasn’t waiting for salvation, but rather, she was simply enjoying the winter wind and watching the snow as it fell somewhere in the distant mountains.

  Her golden hair, tied back in a tight braid, fell on a golden dress. The sun occasionally peeked out from behind the clouds, and the sunbeams gently reflected off her shimmering necklace.

  Her emerald eyes sparkled, and the princess listened to her lady-in-waiting attentively.

  The girl was young, and wasn’t an amazing beauty, but she had a more than pleasant singing voice.

  Elaine had personally hired her. Bards were barred from visiting the Palace. In fact, very few people had been allowed to enter the Palace lately, and many of the country's top officials were forced to spend countless hours in his reception room just to get an audience with the King.

  When she looked out her window, Elaine often saw her father sitting by an unmarked grave on the shore of the lake for such long periods of time. Sometimes it looked to her like he was talking to the tombstone. He sometimes laughed, but more often than not, he was sad. And when he heard the songs about General Hadjar, he would immediately leave or demand that the singer cease.

  “Tell me more,” Elaine requested to the girl.

  She was holding a portrait she’d commissioned from an artist in her hands. Although it was close, it wasn’t a completely accurate likeness, as the artist had created the portrait only according to her lady-in-waiting’s description. The other reason for why the Princess had accepted her as a lady-in-waiting was that the girl had lived in Spring Town.

  “I’ve already told you everything I know about the General, my Princess.”

  The girl moved her Ron’Jah aside and hastily covered the scars on her hands with the ends of her sleeves. The blindfold on her face was black, and she almost never smiled. Crooked teeth were not considered to be the best thing for a young girl to have. The expensive dress could not hide her ugly figure beneath, and the heels she wore couldn’t disguise the shortness of her legs.

  “Tell me more, please,” Elaine almost pleaded.

  She felt a strange kinship with this man as she looked at his portrait. It seemed to her that she had already seen his strong chin, wide cheekbones, powerful neck, and the steady gaze of his hypnotizing, blue eyes.

  In the portrait, his long hair was gathered in a tight bun and tied back with a white ribbon. However, a pigtail with a silver bauble on it hung from the man’s right temple.

  The General wore old, worn clothes instead of armor, but the artist had taken the liberty of adding a few steel plates to his attire. The warrior's palm rested on the hilt of his well-known sword—Moon Beam.

  Perhaps their souls had been born together, or maybe she was destined to love a man she’d never before seen or known. However, each time she gazed upon his image, her inner voice whispered that she knew him.

  Such thoughts were probably inspired by the numerous ladies' novels that her nurse had read to her in her childhood.

  “I never visited the army camp, my Princess.” The lady-in-waiting smoothed her thin, dry-as-straw hair. “Even the most desperate of soldiers weren’t very fond of women like me.”

  Elaine smiled at her lady-in-waiting. To her, she was the most beautiful flower in the garden. Her voice touched her heart and soul, and as for her outer beauty, all people would be equally wrinkled and gray after a while. Beauty was only a fleeting vision.

  However, the daughters of the nobles always laughed at the words of the Princess. Behind her back, of course.

  They whispered and sarcastically remarked that it was easy for her to say so. She was far and away one of the most desirable and beautiful women in not only her kingdom, but also the kingdoms surrounding it.

  The legends had spread so rapidly throughout the Kingdom that all the nobles of the Empire had come to woo her!

  “But I did see the General in town once,” the girl said. “He was with his friend, Officer Nero, and the desert witch, Serra. They were at the festival.”

  “How is it that you remember the General?” the Princess asked.

  The lady-in-waiting remembered the evening she’d seen Hadjar among the crowd. She effortlessly recalled his clear and pure eyes, then shook her head.

  “His beauty is only comparable to yours, my Princess, but…”

  Elaine raised her eyebrows.

  “But... what?” she prompted.

  “Perhaps it's because I am only a mortal, my Princess, but despite how handsome he was, it seemed to me, for a moment…” The maid shuddered again, tucking in her knees and embracing them. “Like a terrible animal in human form was walking along the road in his place.”

  Elaine had already heard many stories that suggested that the General sometimes caused these peculiar feelings in people—as if they were alone in a dark cave with an angry tiger.

  “His eyes,” the lady-in-waiting recalled. “There was something inhuman and... not good in them, my Princess.”

  “Not good?”

  The girl nodded, struggling to meet the Princess’ gaze.

  “I don’t mean something ‘evil’, like you’d see in the eyes of thieves or bandits. But... it was as if he was searching for the hunter who’d stabbed him with a spear. That’s what I mean...” The maid looked down at the instrument she still held in her hands.

  After that night, she’d no longer been able to listen to the songs about the General with the same appreciation as before. And yet, it was these songs that had made her a woman of relative power. Thanks to them, she no longer had to steal food, she was dressed in the best clothes, and she wore exquisite jewelry, the likes of which she could never have even dreamed of.

  Beautiful noblewomen, who hadn’t paid any attention to her before, now sought out her company, flattered and fawned over her, and did everything they could to attract the attention of the Princess with the help of her lady-in-waiting.

  “All the people there were walking around and having fun,” the girl continued. “And the General... well, he was hunting.”

  Elaine turned back to the window. She’d heard the rumors about how General Hadjar had destroyed General Larvie’s castle and killed its owner. But even that couldn't douse her feelings.

  The P
rincess looked at the distant mountains. The Northern wind was blowing from that direction, bringing with it a refreshing coolness that made the day pleasant, despite the general cloudiness.

  Somewhere out there, among the snow and stones, the General fought, his name bolstering the people’s courage. They sang songs about his valor and glory in the cities and in every tavern that dotted the Empire. Sometimes people whispered, remembering some other Hadjar. They said that the gods had taken the Prince from them, but they’d given them a General in return.

  Alas, Elaine, who’d never left the deserted palace, knew nothing of this.

  Any mention of Prince Hadjar had been forbidden by the king. And even the lady-in-waiting, who knew about these rumors that stirred the land, didn’t dare mention the murdered, legitimate heir to the throne.

  “Tell me more,” Elaine sighed.

  As the two girls were chatting in the high tower, two other people were talking in the Palace below. However, their conversation was taking place in the dark and damp confines of the underground dungeons.

  King Primus sat opposite the old woman, who was chained to the wall, with a torch in his hands. Nanny’s body was riddled with numerous ulcers and blisters, she was bald, and some of her fingers had been removed. With so many chunks of flesh torn out from her body, she no longer resembled an actual human being.

  She no longer had most of her teeth, and those that remained were worn down almost to the gums. Purulent streams flowed from the empty voids of her mouth.

  “Almost fifteen years of torture, Nanny.” Primus leaned on his chin, bored. “Most men wouldn't be able to stand a tenth of that.”

  “Men,” a hoarse, barking voice rang out. “You only know how to shout, not how to endure.”

  “How long do you think you can keep this up? Just one word, Nanny. Just tell me where the king's sword is, and I'll give you your long-awaited death.”

  Her body was held up by chains, but her throat still rasped out something that barely resembled a laugh. Still, it was undoubtedly a laugh.

  “You will give me death, Primus? Me? No, you worthless boy! You won’t be killing me. I will dance on your bones and bask in the flames of your burning flesh!” She wheezed and slammed the back of her head against the wall, leaving a bloody streak behind. Crazy old woman.

  “He’s coming, Primus. I hear him. I see his eyes. The eyes of the beast! The beast will come for you, kinslayer! He'll eat your soul and drink the brain right out of your skull! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

  Primus shook his head and left the prison.

  Perhaps his torturers had overdone it and now he would never know where the ancient artifact left behind by the founder of Lidus, its first king, was hidden.

  Coming back outside, Primus looked at the distant ruins of the castle, overgrown with grass and hidden behind young saplings; they reminded him of what he’d done.

  But, in fifteen years, he’d never heard any credible news of the Prince’s whereabouts. And even if he had survived, how could a helpless cripple hope to harm him?

  Chapter 125

  As Hadjar walked through the snow, the neuronet counter showed that he still had enough time. The spirit had indeed been able to freeze the seemingly unstoppable river of time in some incomprehensible way that Hadjar couldn’t even hope to understand.

  A normal person would’ve lost their way long ago or even turned into a human popsicle, but Hadjar was far from normal, and he was currently being guided by a flickering red arrow. A ‘compass’ provided by his neuronet.

  Hadjar didn’t know how it was able to calculate the correct path in this weather. He couldn’t even make out his own fingers as he stretched his arm forward because of the strong wind and snowfall that was creating a dense, white veil before his eyes.

  But at some point, the weather suddenly calmed down. Hadjar literally found himself coming out of the snowstorm with each step he took.

  The blizzard was still raging somewhere behind him, but Hadjar now stood in the middle of a calm and majestic gorge. Three stone pillars covered in blue runes towered in front of him. A welcome sight, as they marked the entrance to the sixth pavilion. The magic spells and shields that protected it were conjuring the blizzard that he had just struggled through.

  Serra was standing in the tall grass behind the pillars. She stared at the figure wrapped in white robes.

  Hadjar brushed the snow off his shoulders and tore the ice crust away from his face. It hurt, but he didn't scream or groan. He smiled widely at Serra. She covered her mouth with her hands, fell to her knees, and trembled, sobbing silently.

  These were tears of both joy and relief.

  “It’s all right, Serra.” Hadjar approached her, pulled down his white cloak, threw it aside, and then raised the girl to her feet. “Come on. We’re running out of time.”

  They walked through the camp together. The soldiers greeted him with even greater respect than ever, despite what Hadjar had done. They beat their fists against their chests and straightened; pride and respect were evident in every look aimed his way.

  “General Hadjar!” they cheered. “The General is back!”

  After passing through the basic training grounds and a dozen tents for the wounded, they entered a rich, two-story building. The number of soldiers moaning and screaming in pain had been greatly reduced since the day Hadjar had last visited the medical unit. And, judging by the glum faces of the scholars and healers, they’d been unable to save most of the soldiers they had treated.

  Piles of yellow and red bandages and the strong smell of fire confirmed it. They usually burned the bed linens after people died. It was probably not a ritual, but more of a sanitary necessity, he assumed. Pus and blood were almost impossible to wash off, especially in conditions such as these.

  “Were you successful, my General?” The scholar of the Bear squad asked.

  Hadjar realized that he still didn't know the man’s name. He had always avoided addressing him directly or just called him ‘Scholar’. Now he wanted to know this man’s name for some reason—perhaps because his appearance commanded respect.

  The dark bags under his eyes, shaking hands, and graying skin showed that the healer hadn’t closed his eyes once these past six days, and even now, he didn’t sit down to rest. Stuffing his body with a variety of drugs, he’d stayed on his feet to save or at least try to save as many people as possible.

  “Yes.” Hadjar nodded.

  He carefully took out a black bud of the Stone Flower. The scholar, trying not to breathe, took it from him with the same care.

  “I need ten minutes.” He went into a little back room, which served as both his laboratory and a study.

  Hadjar suspected that the elder who had previously occupied the room had once used it as a storeroom. They’d had to persuade the scholar to ‘settle’ in this room. The healer had wanted to use every square inch of the area for the wounded, leaving no space for himself.

  Serra grabbed Hadjar by the wrist and headed for the screen behind which her lover lay. It had been extremely difficult for her to sit by the bed of her usually cheerful and lively Nero while he suffered.

  Damn it. It had been hard to imagine until that very moment that his friend could ever be so weak. He usually joked even in the face of death...

  Hadjar pushed the screen aside. His friend was lying on the bed. He was covered in scabs, writhing in pain, and whispering something, clearly delirious. His wrists were tied down with wide leather straps to prevent him from scratching his sores and blisters and causing an infection. But, despite the restraints, Hadjar’s gaze was still drawn to the ulcers that covered his friend’s body. They were swollen like spring buds on a young tree. They were large and fat, filled with fragrant, viscous liquids.

  The black substance had spread through his veins and blood vessels. It almost covered his entire body, and only the hieroglyph that had been burned into his chest was preventing it from getting any closer to his heart. But the magic couldn’t hold back the venom fore
ver, and a few black tendrils that had wormed past the protection created by Serra were already visible.

  Hadjar didn’t even want to think about how excruciating it must’ve been for the desert witch to pick up a hot branding iron and hold it against the body of her lover. Even more so, Hadjar didn’t want to know what his friend had shouted at that moment.

  “Will the Flower help?” Serra asked. Her voice was hoarse from crying.

  Hadjar didn’t blame her for feeling weak. Despite her impulsiveness and forceful personality, Serra had never been a warrior. She was a brave and reckless scientist, but not a warrior.

  “It has to,” Hadjar replied in as calm a voice as he could muster.

  He didn’t want to worry the girl further, but he mentally vowed that if the flower didn’t help, he would send another Imperial cultivator to his death.

  The healer went behind the screen for a while before returning with a bowl filled with a viscous, foul-smelling, black mixture in his hands. Putting it on the bedside table, he drew a curved knife.

  “Stand back,” he ordered.

  Hadjar and Serra moved away from the bed obediently. The General embraced her and she squeezed his fingers so hard that their knuckles turned white. Her body was shaking, and Hadjar tried to calm the trepidation in both his own heart and hers.

  The doctor lit the burner and heated the end of his knife. He lowered the blade into the bowl as he whispered something. The boiling liquid hissed and a thick, acrid smoke rose out of it.

  The healer cut into the largest of the growths on Nero's chest with the knife covered in the hot liquid. The halberd strike of ‘The Black Gates” Master had punctured Nero’s body there.

  As soon as the blade cut the skin open, black and green pus poured out onto his chest and Nero’s body bent like an arch while an inhuman scream escaped from his throat.

  “What’s happening?” Serra shouted.

  She tried to go to her lover’s aid, but Hadjar kept a tight grip on her shoulders.

  The healer, continuing to whisper something, plunged the blade deeper and deeper. Then he turned it and removed a kind of... creature from Nero’s body in one sharp motion. A small, shrieking ball of black wool, drenched in blood and pus, fell to the floor and rushed at the nearest human, which happened to be Serra. The girl didn’t have time to process what was going on before a sword flashed in front of her and the screeching creature turned into a black puddle at her feet.