Dragon Heart: Land of Demons. LitRPG Wuxia Series: Book 7

by Kirill Klevanski

  Hadjar stared at the orc, unable to believe that Earth and this world had a similar creation myth. Steppe Fang seemed to wholeheartedly believe that what he was saying was true.

  “Then came the Heavens, the water, the sky, and the flame. Out of their union came all that you see, hear, and feel.” Steppe Fang, closing his eyes, turned his face to the wind, and then greeted it as if it were a fellow tribesman. Hadjar still didn’t understand what the gesture meant, but he felt like there was some deeper meaning hidden within it. “But since darkness and time were inside life at the beginning, now, like before, everything leans toward the darkness while obeying the inexorable flow of time.”

  Hadjar listened, entranced by the story. He had a feeling that something in the orc’s words was of inestimable importance to him.

  “The life that had merged with and dissolved into the light of energy changed. It could no longer exist just for the sake of existing. Like all living things, it needed a purpose. Thanks to its endless search for meaning, they appeared. Some call them the Ancients, and others who, like us, remember the ways of our ancestors — the Spirits.”

  Hadjar had never heard of any Ancients. Not even Dora Marnil had mentioned them.

  “The Spirits — the children of life itself — once lived in peace and harmony, but that didn’t last long.”

  Steppe Fang fell silent for a moment. His face showed both pain and gratitude. He touched a feather on his head.

  “Why?” Hadjar asked.

  “Because of the search for meaning and purpose, of course.” The orc sighed heavily. “No one can live long without a goal, little hunter. Everyone and everything has one. The oldest of the Spirits, those that were the strongest and closest to life itself, found their meaning in giving birth to something new, something that would spread life to the farthest corners of the world, that would glorify it and even make more of it.”

  Azrea suddenly jumped off Hadjar’s head and approached Steppe Fang, rubbing her head against his knee. Hadjar saw the orc smile for the first time. It wasn’t scary, but rather… fascinating. There was so much warmth and kindness in that fanged smile.

  “And so, the Great Forest sacrificed its life to give birth to the elves. The First Hunter, the First Wolf, gave birth to us, the orcs. The Great Mountain gave birth to the dwarves in its depths. However, there were other Spirits, those who stood a little further from life and closer to time. They were afraid of it. They were afraid of the abyss. And they decided that the world had been made for them.”

  Hadjar nodded, realizing what Steppe Fang was trying to say. Suddenly, something buzzed near his ear, like a mosquito. Looking around, he didn’t spot a bug, but a fairy instead.

  “And then the gods appeared, little hunter. They started a war against the Spirits and their ancestors — life, darkness, and time. The easy way is always sweeter than the hard way. More and more Spirits followed the gods and lost themselves. Then the gods, overcome with pride, decided that they were equal to their ancestors. That’s when they created humans.”

  The orc paused, gazing at something in the distance.

  “But that’s not where the story ends.”

  “It isn’t.” Steppe Fang sighed. “Because life, darkness, and time didn’t accept the gods. Whatever you might’ve heard, little hunter, the gods aren’t immortal. They, too, will be devoured by the abyss. They even created their own executioner — the Black Spirit, the one who was chosen by the gods but liked the humans more.”

  Hadjar thought that he’d just heard a raven croaking behind him. He turned, but saw nothing there, only the boundless gold of the steppe.

  Chapter 569

  “That part of the story isn’t told around our campfires, as it doesn’t belong to our tribe, but to the humans. But you’ve forgotten your ancestors and your benefactor. I’ve heard them call him the Enemy. You’re fools. The false gods, the Spirits who lost their way, are pulling your strings.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  Steppe Fang smiled as if he’d just realized something that had been bothering him for a long time.

  “My wife, Light Step, told me,” he replied, his eyes full of longing. It would be impossible for Hadjar to treat the orc like an animal now, even if the Lascanians called them that and worse. “Her mother, a human, told her the story.”

  “How-”

  “My wife’s story isn’t mine to tell, North Wind,” Steppe Fang interrupted him sternly. “I can’t, and, by the great ancestors, don’t want to tell it.”

  Hadjar nodded in understanding. Not all stories could or should be told. Everyone had their secrets. He himself had quite a few.

  “The arrogant gods created something they shouldn’t have, something that only the union of darkness, energy, life, and time was capable of doing right. Therefore, many sages still wonder whether the gods actually created the Black Spirit, or whether he appeared as a response to the vile acts that the ancient Spirits had committed.”

  Hadjar knew perfectly well that the orc was talking about the Black General, but... The way Steppe Fang spoke about his ancestor moved Hadjar. Everyone else who’d told him stories about the Enemy had told them with fear, anger, and disdain. Of course, many people worshiped the power of the Enemy, the greatest swordsman of all time, but they still condemned and feared him. But not the orcs. They spoke of him with gratitude and respect.

  “The gods breathed life into a dead tree born from dead earth that had given all its strength to support its dead child and had never become a Spirit as a result. When the tree came to life, they felt the power stir within them. After all, no one had ever been able to do this before, except for life itself. And then, drunk on their newfound power, they did a terrible thing. They called one of the Firstborn, one of the first to come out of darkness, life, energy and time, without whom anyone who breathes could not exist under the sun. They called the Wind.”

  The ornaments in Hadjar’s hair rang louder. The feather swayed violently. A gust of wind ruffled his ragged clothes and lifted the dust from the ground into the sky, whirling it around.

  “That was their greatest mistake.” Steppe Fang repeated the unusual gesture. “The Firstborn aren’t like the Spirits, little hunter. They aren’t intelligent, but they are insanely strong. When the gods called the Firstborn, it fulfilled its only task — it breathed life into something. It became the flesh, armor, and weapon of the Black Spirit. It became his greatest power and tragedy. The gods wanted to make a puppet, but the Firstborn don’t make puppets, they create life. And thus, the Black Spirit was born on that fateful day.”

  Hadjar heard the raven again. Heard it say: “Listen carefully.”

  “For centuries, the Black Spirit served the gods, fighting on their side against those who rose against them.”

  “Who could’ve possibly fought against them?” Hadjar asked in surprise. “Who had the power and courage to challenge them?”

  “Those who refused to follow them…”

  Hadjar shuddered. He felt sick for a second. He saw sadness and remorse in the orc’s eyes, so similar to the haunted look of parents who knew that their children wouldn’t be returning from war.

  “They were Spirits, little hunter, brave and strong. They’d been fighting the gods for thousands of years, but…” Steppe Fang shook his head and touched the tattoo on his chest again. “Each battle leaves its mark,” he said, running his fingers over his numerous scars. “Both on the body and on the soul. The Spirits who fought against the gods lost their way and their connection to life. After that loss, they grew weaker. They replaced their true goal with a false one — victory over the gods. The battle changed them and so-”

  “-the demons appeared,” Hadjar finished.

  Helmer had made a fool out of him. He wasn’t younger than the first Darkhan, but older. That meant… Damn it! Hadjar hated intrigue. He hadn’t been prepared for it, and his head ached.

  “The Black Spirit fought against the demons for millions of years, leading the di
vine armies and casting the defeated Spirits into the darkness,” Steppe Fang continued.

  Azrea stopped rubbing against the orc’s knee and returned to Hadjar. Picking her up, he rolled her onto her back and began scratching her belly. Purring, she clung to his fingers with her claws.

  “As he fought the demons, the Black Spirit realized how horrible the humans’ lives were. He saw how they were forced to huddle in caves, basking in the fire brought by the sky. They couldn’t get fire themselves. The only protection from monsters they had was climbing high enough to avoid them.”

  Hadjar listened with great interest, like a child being told a bedtime story by a beloved grandparent. Legends about the dawn of history couldn’t even be found in the Treasure Tower of ‘The Holy Sky’ School. If rumors were to be believed, such a thing could only be found in the Emperor’s personal library, so the knowledge that Steppe Fang was sharing with him was priceless.

  “The Black Spirit, seeing that the world was suffering while he was fighting, realized that he, too, had been living without a true purpose. As if summoned by his doubts, it appeared before him. Guided by it, he descended from the Seventh Heaven to our world as a friend. He showed the humans how to make fire and steel. He showed them how to fight monsters and he taught them about cultivation and its ways. However, as he’d been created by the gods, he knew nothing of the ways of the ancestors and the Spirits. So, it isn’t your fault that you’ve forgotten them, nor is it the Black Spirit’s fault that he didn’t tell you about them.”

  Hadjar was surprised to learn that the human path of cultivation had been taught to them by the Black Spirit. But who had created it? Hadjar didn’t like where this was going because the heroes only defeated the villains with their own weapons in fairy tales.

  “The gods hated the Black Spirit for gifting knowledge to their slaves. They called their own creation a traitor and banished him. Rejected by the gods, he began wandering through the worlds.”

  Silence reigned for a while.

  “And then?” Hadjar asked.

  “That is the end of the story as the orcs know it,” Steppe Fang answered. “And also the end of today’s lesson.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t rush things, little hunter,” he said in an admonishing tone. “Time likes to take things slow. For too long, the ways of your ancestors have been forgotten, and you’ll have to learn a lot more to understand their power. The path will be difficult and long, but I’ll walk it with you.”

  Steppe Fang rose and extended his hand to Hadjar. The latter, though surprised, accepted the help. Together, they made their way back to the tavern.

  “Tell me, what made you change your mind about me?”

  Steppe Fang glanced at him, then averted his gaze.

  “Perhaps I’ll find the answer to that question myself one day. In the meantime, you and I should focus on our task.”

  “The Dah’Khasses.”

  The orc nodded.

  “Darkness is coming, and with it, unbalance. The world will start hurtling into the abyss a lot faster. It’s our responsibility to save it.”

  I’m rather experienced when it comes to saving the world, Hadjar chuckled to himself, remembering Sankesh and the elixir of the gods. I doubt that the Dah’Khasses are scarier than a mad Sunshine Sankesh.

  If only he knew how wrong he was.

  Chapter 570

  “Are you ready?” Derek, followed by Alea and Irma, rode up to Hadjar and Steppe Fang.

  “Of course,” Hadjar said.

  Azrea jumped out of his shirt and landed gently on the ground. She yawned, and then growled softly. A tornado of lightning and white flames erupted around her. When it subsided, Hadjar went up to the now big tigress and patted her neck. Azrea replied by poking his forehead with her snout. If Hadjar had been a mere practitioner, he would’ve been punted several yards away by the impact. Even holding back, Azrea was still an Ancient Beast, comparable in strength to the initial stage of a human Lord.

  “Where’s your mount?” Derek asked Steppe Fang, noticing that he and Hadjar seemed to be on friendlier terms now.

  The orc ignored him. He cupped his hands together, put them to his mouth, and made a strange sound, something like a howl mixed with a dog’s bark and the famous rhythm of the orc drums that all the borderlands dreaded to hear. Howling in response, the huge wolf appeared from behind the hills and charged straight at the squad.

  When it came close, Azrea growled nervously and flicked her tail against her sides. The fur on the back of the wolf’s neck settled down, the red gleam in its eyes faded, and its upper lip covered its fangs.

  “Your friend is strong.” Steppe Fang smiled while mounting the wolf. “She’s a good hunter.”

  He observed the scars on Azrea’s body. Usually, they were hidden under her thick fur, but the wind would sometimes reveal them, showing that Azrea hadn’t always won her battles. Hadjar mounted the tigress. She immediately jumped up and turned northwest.

  The trio of disciples exchanged confused glances and followed the other two in silence. The meaning of Hadjar and Steppe Fang’s conversation eluded them because the two were speaking about topics beyond their understanding.

  Hadjar was glad to finally learn more about the orcs’ path of cultivation.

  “Spirits are everywhere,” Steppe Fang told him. “It doesn’t matter if they can enter our world and take shape or not. They’re everywhere.”

  He pointed to a tree that had miraculously survived the night’s storm. Dry and dying, it had given in to the weight of the hot sky and loneliness. Only bushes grew in the steppe. Groups of trees were as rare as cities and villages. Hadjar sometimes saw herds of fifteen-foot tall, herbivorous creatures covered in thick, brown hair, with branching horns, eight legs, and three tails.

  Huge birds would sometimes appear in the sky. High above them, he could occasionally spot the silhouettes of creatures with six wings and three heads. He was honestly amazed.

  “I’ve heard that Spirits can’t always be born and that-”

  Steppe Fang laughed.

  “A child can always be born, if its parents make love under the right moon.”

  Hadjar didn’t answer. Mortals could probably make a child with ease, but the stronger a cultivator became, the more difficult it was for them to conceive a child, and the pregnancy was different as well. According to rumors, children from the Land of the Immortals were born at the Heaven Soldier level, or even higher.

  “Spirits are everywhere, little hunter: in every drop of rain, in every blade of grass our loyal companions step on...” He patted his wolf’s neck. “They’re everywhere, but they don’t always show up.”

  Hadjar remembered the Spirits of the Kurkhadan oasis and the Dark Forest.

  “Are there any Spirits that are sentient?” He asked. “Or rather, why are some reasonable and some aren’t?”

  Once again, Steppe Fang smiled.

  “Do you consider a child who can’t speak intelligent?”

  “Not really,” Hadjar replied after a moment’s thought.

  “It’s the same with Spirits. Those who can talk have lived too long among this world’s inhabitants. They’ve learned to adapt. Others… We can’t see or hear them, and therefore, understand them.”

  Some of what Steppe Fang said enlightened him, while the rest astonished him. The orc had probably been right when he’d said that Hadjar’s path to understanding would be long and thorny. But no matter the difficulty, if it could help him get even slightly closer to his goal, he would make it to the end. As always.

  Without stopping to rest, since neither they nor their mounts needed it, they talked and talked about various topics. Hadjar would sometimes look up at the starry sky. Back in the Sea of Sand, he’d longed for rain, cold, and snow — everything that he’d had to leave behind, along with his homeland and parent’s house. Now, in the steppes, he was enjoying this starry sky that was so similar to the one in the desert — a rug of black velvet studded with multico
lored jewels.

  The following morning, they reached what had once been a large village.

  “Be careful,” Steppe Fang whispered, raising his fist. “We’re on the border of the Dah’Khasses’ lands.”

  Azrea wagged her tail nervously. The wolf growled, and the horses neighed, pulling at their reins.

  The village, built on the bank of a river at the foot of a green-covered mountain, had been completely destroyed. The roofs of the once beautiful huts had been broken and the fences around the yards ripped out of the ground. Pieces of cloth were fluttering in the wind. Hadjar shivered, suddenly feeling cold. Steam billowed from his mouth. Impossible! What could’ve made him, a Heaven Soldier at the middle stage, feel this cold? Any mortal would’ve frozen to death instantly!

  “The Dah’Khasses devour life,” Steppe Fang explained. “It’s only going to get colder from here.”

  Riding past the obliterated house of the village chief, Hadjar finally realized what was so strange about this place. He’d seen destroyed villages before and they’d always had two things in common — corpses and blood, neither of which was present here.

  “They all serve the Dah’Khasses now,” Steppe Fang answered his unspoken question. “They’re assembling an army.”

  The rest of the squad stayed silent.

  Chapter 571

  After several hours of frantic riding, they’d finally left the endless steppes behind and were now following a wide river. Back on Earth, it would’ve been called a sea because the other shore was too far to be seen, but here, it was a river.

  “The old frontier!” Derek suddenly exclaimed. “I never thought I’d get to see it one day.”

  Mortals would’ve considered the distance of seven thousand miles that they’d just covered an incredible one. But to cultivators, such trips were akin to a brisk walk. If they’d had a sky vessel at their disposal, they would’ve gotten here even sooner. The only thing slowing them down was the fact that the horses, which were weaker than the wolf and Azrea, would get tired, forcing them to move slower.