“He met a female human there. A union between an orc and a human isn’t pleasing to the Great Ancestors, but Purling Song’s father didn’t know any other free hunters.” Steppe Fang made that ritualistic orc gesture again. “And so, Purling Song was born,” he said and fell silent.
“But how did you two meet?”
“On a hunt. The mines where her father was imprisoned produced metal. We needed that metal to make our fangs.” He tapped the handle of one of his trusty axes. “As we were leaving with the loot, I saw a small Dah’Gakhag and took her with me.”
“Wait, how old are you?”
“I’ve seen the snow fall on the steppe more than a hundred times.”
The orc was more than a hundred years old! Damn it all! Hadjar stared at him, baffled. Those who followed the path of cultivation had a distorted perception of time. The stronger a cultivator became, the worse this distortion got.
“Did you raise your own wife?”
Steppe Fang burst out laughing. He even thumped his fist against the ground, which made small cracks appear on the stones.
“Raising one’s own wife would be rather strange, don’t you think?” He asked at last. “No, I handed the Dah’Gakhag over to the tribe and left to wander. When I returned twenty years later, I saw her once again and we’ve never been apart since.”
Hadjar nodded. He looked up at the dark sky. They were close to the land of the Dah’Khasses, but the pressure of their auras wasn’t strong yet, and no flakes of volcanic ash fell on their shoulders.
“Then why did you leave her now?”
“Because of the shaman’s prediction,” the orc replied calmly, but Hadjar could feel that Steppe Fang was excited. “He predicted that you and I could save the world from the Dah’Khasses. Just the two of us.”
Hadjar cursed. Talking about prophecies and the fate of the world made him nervous.
“But why you? Any orc could’ve done it! And why me? There are many others who bear the name North Wind.”
“I don’t know, hunter.” The orc dropped another pinch of powder into the mortar and finally finished the concoction. “I don’t know why the shaman saw me in his dream. And as for the Darkhan Name … I’m not sure that any of the other Darkhans would’ve passed the Spirits’ test.”
Hadjar looked at the bag containing the fang-dagger. According to the orc, only that weapon could kill a being as powerful as the King of the Dah’Khasses. Without that dagger, their attempt would just be suicide.
“Give me the dagger and go back to your wife,” Hadjar said and held out an open palm.
Instead of growling and glaring at him, Steppe Fang just smiled a little sadly.
“Why do you want to help me, hunter?”
Hadjar looked into the orc’s eyes. By the Evening Stars, he wasn’t the sentimental type. His heart had long ago hardened and turned colder than the snow that covered the tallest mountain peak. And yet…
“I grew up without a father, giant,” Hadjar murmured. “I know what it’s like. If I ensure that your son can one day hug his father, maybe I’ll breathe a little easier.”
For the first time ever, Hadjar saw a hint of fear in Steppe Fang’s eyes.
“How did you know?”
“When Purling Song and you parted, I looked at her through the World River. I don’t understand why I did it, but that’s how I know.”
Steppe Fang’s giant shoulders slumped and his head hung low. However, that didn’t last long. The orc quickly pulled himself together and handed Hadjar the bowl.
“Then grow stronger, hunter, and we’ll hunt the Dah’Khasses together. When I come back to my family, I’ll tell my son all about it. I’ll tell him that not all humans have forgotten their ancestors and what it means to have honor.”
As he accepted the bowl, Hadjar didn’t notice the sadness that appeared in the orc’s eyes.
“Let’s start training.”
Chapter 588
“Your Spirit is still small, hunter.” Steppe Fang stopped Hadjar from drinking the potion. “Before we start strengthening your body, tell me what you know about Spirits.”
“To be honest, only what you told me. And what one elf girl taught me.”
The orc nodded as if he’d expected no other answer.
“We don’t have much time, so listen to me carefully.” Scooping up the water from the lake, Steppe Fang washed his face. “When a person who has forgotten the way of the ancestors calls upon their Spirit, they force it to give them its energy without giving anything in return. That’s wrong. It insults the ancestors.”
Hadjar realized that Steppe Fang was talking about Spirit Knights. He was glad that the orc was, yet again, teaching him something he would’ve had to pay thousands of Glory points for at ‘The Holy Sky’ School.
“The way of the ancestors is different. This is the source of your power.” The orc touched Hadjar’s chest, right where his energy core was. “It’s too weak to summon your Spirit right now, but your Spirit is still here, next to you. You saw it. It was your prey in the glorious hunt in the Spirit World.”
Hadjar nodded, realizing what the orc was talking about. In order to finally understand all of this, or some of it, at least, he’d had to pass the shaman’s test and eat the root of a ten-thousand-year-old fern.
“Whether it becomes stronger or not will depend on you.”
“How can I make it stronger?”
Steppe Fang lifted his upper lip.
“Sometimes, I think you’re stupid, North Wind. Even by human standards.”
“Giant, I’m offended on behalf of the entire human race. When did we humans become stupid?”
“When you replaced the way of your ancestors with Techniques, artifacts, and gunpowder.”
Hadjar didn’t argue the point, though he had a lot to say in humanity’s defense. Humans may have missed out on some things throughout history, but it was the human Empires that ruled over vast territories now. It was the human Empires that built the great cities, while the orcs still lived in huts and didn’t even have a written language.
“Your Name, North Wind, the one you received during your trial, will make it stronger.”
“How’s that possible?” Hadjar asked.
He’d thought that he’d finally managed to understand most of this, but now he was once again confused.
Steppe Fang removed his hand from the bowl, allowing Hadjar to drink its contents. “One day, you’ll find your path, and in the meantime, we’ll deal with your body.”
Hadjar, preparing for the unpleasant aftereffects, downed the concoction. He even closed his eyes, expecting the worst, but to his surprise, it wasn’t like drinking hot metal. The potion had a soft, floral taste, like the honey his brother had loved so much. May his rebirth be peaceful.
“Do you like it?” Steppe Fang asked.
“I do,” Hadjar replied in surprise.
“Our shaman says that power always tastes good, but it has a terrible aftertaste.” Steppe Fang smiled as never before ― he grinned widely.
At that moment, Hadjar tasted something so horrific that he felt compelled to drink the lake water to get rid of the taste. During the hungriest years of his life, he’d eaten whatever he’d been able to get his hands on. He had even learned to set snares for birds, mostly pigeons. The concoction’s aftertaste reminded him of eating the rotten, decomposing corpse of a pigeon.
“No!” The orc snarled, stopping Hadjar from drinking from the lake. “Be patient, hunter!”
Hadjar, coming to his senses, found himself in Steppe Fang’s tight embrace. Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply, feeling as if some strange, alien energy had bypassed his core and was now spreading along his meridians and nodes. Instead of accumulating in them, it was soaking into their walls, making them stronger and brighter than before.
“What is this?”
“Our tribe’s secret,” Steppe Fang explained. “Wolf Broth. From the moment they can walk, our youngsters drink one drop of it every first sno
w.”
“One drop?” Hadjar screamed as pain followed the disgusting taste. “ONE DROP?”
Steppe Fang grabbed him from behind again. He locked his huge arms around Hadjar’s chest and held him in place. By the Evening Stars, if he hadn’t done so, Hadjar might’ve hurt himself in the throes of his immense agony. A tidal wave of hellish pain had flooded his body, like hot iron was touching his bare nerves. Or like hundreds of stinging horseflies were biting every inch of his body. From the inside.
“You’ve never drunk this potion before, hunter. Therefore, I had to prepare the dose that a free orc drinks when their twenty-fifth winter comes around. By that point, they’ve already become stronger than stones.”
“What… the… fuck…?”
Hadjar couldn’t see or hear properly. There was so much pain that he got lost in it. However, hardened by his journey into the Spirit World, he was able to withstand this trial.
“That’s not all, hunter,” the orc whispered in his ear. “No one can simply drink power. You must earn it yourself.”
“What?” Hadjar asked, unable to understand him.
“The effects of the Wolf Broth will soon wear off. To prevent this, you need to stare death in the face.”
For some reason, Hadjar remembered how a forged sword was dipped in cold oil in order to be tempered. If the forging was successful, the sword became stronger, and if not, it cracked and fell apart.
“Do you see that waterfall?” The orc pointed to a huge stream of water falling from the black sky. “It was born in the land of the Dah’Khasses. Even Bear’s Rage could drown in that water. The stones it hides could cut through his flesh. This waterfall is death.”
Hadjar’s strained eyes could barely make out the rocks and the raging torrent. To him, it mostly looked like a blue line in the darkness.
“And?” He whispered.
Hadjar could barely stand on his own. If Steppe Fang let go, he’d fall headfirst onto the rocks. Everything in this world had its limit, and Hadjar was sure that he had reached his own. A mortal child could probably finish him off at this point.
“Climb it. If you can reach the top, most of the Wolf Broth will be absorbed. Conquer the waterfall, Darkhan. You’ll find power at its peak.”
Steppe Fang’s arms parted.
Chapter 589
Hadjar almost lost his balance, but he managed to stay on his feet. Not because he’d found some hidden power within himself as the heroes from ballads often did, or because he’d seen Elaine’s or Anise’s visage appear in front of him, or because he’d realized that the demons were preparing to attack both Empires, but simply because he’d had to stay upright. He had to climb this damned waterfall if he wanted to get stronger. Even if it were several times larger and more dangerous, he would’ve still done it. Steppe Fang had been right — power wasn’t free. A cultivator could only earn it through blood, sweat, and tears. There were no shortcuts.
Gritting his teeth in pain, Hadjar awkwardly stepped into the lake, which was even colder than the snow atop the Baliumian Mountains had been. The cold penetrated every cell of his body. It didn’t even dull the pain, only made it more pronounced. Despite this, he was thankful for the cold. It helped him stand straight.
He looked up at the black sky. With another flash of scarlet lightning and peal of furious thunder, a raindrop fell on Hadjar’s face.
“Fucking rain,” he barely managed to murmur — his lips and tongue didn’t want to obey him and every breath he took brought pain with it.
When he reached the waterfall, it started raining heavily. Every raindrop was like a crossbow bolt piercing his skin. If he hadn’t had the dragon heart beating in his chest, he would’ve died instantly.
“Damn it,” he growled, plunging his arm into the cascading stream of water, which was as sharp and cold as the blade of an executioner’s axe. He could hear his bones crunch and his skin tear. As soon as his physical body succumbed to the water’s pressure, his energy body flashed with a bright, blue light, the source of which wasn’t his core, but his channels. For a moment, it seemed like the center of his power wasn’t his core, but all of his meridians and nodes instead.
The light from his energy body flowed into his arm, and the pain subsided slightly. Hadjar felt his arm become stronger. The longer it remained beneath the waterfall, the more powerful it became.
A wide smile appeared on Hadjar’s face. When he’d been little, he’d often seen paintings and tapestries depicting ancient cultivators during their training. In search of power, the heroes of Lidus had often meditated under waterfalls, enveloped in their thundering waters.
Why should I just sit under the waterfall? I can do more!
Hadjar plunged his other arm into the stream and shuddered, not from the pain or cold, but because he felt like he was deliberately walking into Death’s open arms. It had failed to catch him so many times that it was probably tired of chasing him by now. For a change, he was the one chasing it this time.
He bent his left leg at the knee and moved it onto the ledge. After moving the other one, he completely disappeared inside the cascading curtain of water and steam.
He fought against the current, armed with nothing but the flesh and bone of his body. Each drop of water felt like being stabbed by a dagger belonging to a warrior at the One with the World level of weapon mastery.
Snarling and gritting his teeth, Hadjar raised his right hand and grabbed the next ledge. His energy body flared up again. He thought he heard a howl through the thunderous roar of the waterfall. Its cold water washed away his hot blood spilled by the sharpened rocks. Pressing his body against the stone, he felt like an ant crawling across a huge crater toward its inevitable demise.
Whenever the spikes cut through his flesh, his meridians and nodes would shine even brighter. Their energy healed the wounds inflicted on his physical body.
Hadjar continued climbing up the waterfall. Through the haze of pain caused by the water, the rocks, and the orc’s concoction, he tried to control his every movement, as any mistake he made would lead to him falling off and landing in the lake, shredded into tiny little pieces.
Along the way, he sometimes paused, pressing against the rocks that continued to mercilessly tear into his flesh and muscles, even breaking his bones at times. Blood and energy seethed in him. With every inch of progress he made, he could feel his energy body more clearly. Before, it had used to feel like a separate entity. Right now, however, it felt like the channels and the nodes were inside his body. Every time he needed it, they gave him energy. They no longer drained it from his core, but empowered his body directly, as if every inch of his energy body had become the core.
“Gar’ak dur!” He shouted in excitement and defiance, then grabbed another ledge.
He had no idea how long he’d been climbing this damned waterfall, but he felt Steppe Fang’s words coming true. Placing his right hand on another ledge, he waited for the blood to trickle down his forearm, but... it didn’t. The rocks couldn’t cut through his palm anymore. After spending a dozen seconds hanging from the ledge and hanging on with just his arm, a thin, red trickle finally ran down his forearm.
Rumors said that Master Orune, one of the greatest swordsmen of Darnassus, had made his body as strong as an Earth level artifact. This meant that even if Hadjar hit Orune with an Imperial weapon, it would feel like slashing at armor. He wouldn’t even be able to scratch it. After overcoming this waterfall, Hadjar hoped that his body would become strong enough to leave at least Spirit level armor in the dust…
Hadjar leapt upward and, ignoring the rocks, continued to climb. The grin on his face grew wider, and then suddenly faded. Through the water, he saw a cloud of swirling darkness. He was near the waterfall’s source ― the dark clouds were within arm’s reach.
Red lightning shaped like a crocodile flashed through the sky and the noise of the thunder that followed struck Hadjar with such force that blood flowed from his ears.
“Damn it!” He swore, b
ut couldn’t even hear himself do so.
Chapter 590
Hadjar’s progress slowed. While it had been difficult to find ledges before as he’d pressed his body against the sharp rocks, it was almost impossible now in the absolute darkness.
The water that had filled his ears saved him from the thunder that could’ve deafened him permanently. Each time the scarlet lightning flashed through the darkness and struck the waterfall, Hadjar froze in place. He endured and hoped that the lightning wouldn’t hit him directly.
Gradually, he moved through the darkness. His mind and heart felt empty, and he crawled toward the danger on pure instinct, like a madman longing for any kind of meaning, even if it meant death. A bolt of lightning struck near Hadjar’s body.
Energy from his expanding meridians and nodes poured into him. At some point, after spending about a minute on the ledge, Hadjar realized that his hands were no longer bleeding. His body must’ve reached some intermediate stage between a Spirit level artifact’s and an Earth level artifact’s toughness.
But Hadjar didn’t care. Maybe he’d already completed Steppe Fang’s training and reached the peak of his power. Any reasonable person would’ve probably turned back. However, he had come to regard the waterfall, the scarlet lightning, and the dark clouds as his opponents.
And Hadjar Darkhan had never walked away from an opponent. He hadn’t avoided life’s many challenges, choosing instead to always meet them head-on. Any problem he’d had, he’d taken care of it. Any obstacle that had ever stood in his way, he’d overcome. He wasn’t fighting to become stronger, but to reach the top of the waterfall and prove to himself that he could truly overcome any difficulty that stood between him and his goal. If he failed now, if he retreated, he would surely give up when he encountered the next obstacle, wouldn’t he? And if that was the case, why should he keep living? If he never reached his goal, did his life have any meaning?
“Gar’ak dur!”
With another growl, Hadjar pierced the dark clouds and clear water with his hand. He’d been expecting another ledge, but his hand grabbed only air. After groping around a little, he found a rock ― rough, but not sharpened by the water.
Dragon Heart: Land of Demons. LitRPG Wuxia Series: Book 7 Page 22