Blood Will

8

For the first time in the past month and a half after his fight against the Patriarch, Hadjar felt just how significant the loss of his neural network was. Alas, it would be unavailable for at least another five years.

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The girl swung her blade. It conjured an oval shape in the air, which, after filling with power, acquired a three-dimensional form. A ring of fire flew in Hadjar’s direction. It burnt the grass in its wake, and was easily hot enough to kill practitioners below the Transformation level.

An ordinary warrior would’ve tried to dodge it and died without noticing that the ring wasn’t moving in a straight line, but following every movement of its target. An experienced warrior would stop it cold, break the Technique, and then counterattack.

Hadjar didn’t choose either of those options. He thrust his palm forward. A ghostly whirlwind of sword energy coalesced around his forearms and a transparent blade, which was barely perceptible, surged toward the ring.

It wasn’t a Technique or even, strictly speaking, a strike from one who had managed to reach the stage of ‘Wielder of the Sword’. It was simply energy that Hadjar had chosen to give such a familiar form.

The two Techniques collided at the halfway point between the fighters and blew up, erupting in a shower of red and silver sparks. Hadjar continued to stand there, looking calm, but the girl, shouting a battle cry, rushed in with a swift lunge.

She burst out of the cloud of sparks and fell upon him with a series of rapid-fire strikes. Her movements were fast enough to blur together and become a ghostly dance of barely perceptible shadows. And yet, Hadjar was faster.

Rather, he was much calmer and had kept a cool head. Instead of three unnecessary movements, he made only a single one. He always let the blade pass dangerously close to his body to conserve energy.

No matter how hard the girl tried, her simple strikes, which made it look as if they were just sparring, couldn’t hurt Hadjar. He easily anticipated her actions. It felt similar to when the neuronet had assisted him during the battle against Grois.

He didn’t even have to move his legs. He stood calmly on the grass, swaying his body to the rhythm of his opponent’s movements. She puffed, screamed, sent out one fiery ring after another, but couldn’t even touch Hadjar.

“Why...” she began finally, after realizing the futility of her attempts. “If you’re so strong, why didn’t you intervene?”

The girl bent forward, trying to catch her breath after the violent assault she’d just unleashed. Hadjar was calm. He still stood on the edge of the stream. His hands were behind his back, and the wind made his cloak flutter slightly.

“Who taught you how to fight?” Hadjar asked.

The girl took a few more deep breaths, straightened, and flipped him off.

“Your mother!” She swore and, turning around, disappeared into the darkness.

Hadjar was left alone with his thoughts. At that moment, he wasn’t thinking about what had just transpired, but rather, about how to get back to the tavern.

It ended up being quite a challenge. Hadjar was able to find the ‘Drunk Goose’ only after searching for it for the rest of the evening. Along the way, he gave his cloak to a homeless man, lost a few gold coins to some crooks in a card game, and got turned around several times.

As a result, Nero and Serra witnessed an unenviable sight that morning — their friend, smelling of blood, sweat, and iron, climbing in through the window of his own room while smeared with women’s makeup.

“How do you even manage to find so many adventures, Hadj?” Nero sighed bitterly, helping his friend climb into the room.

“I was just doing a little scouting,” Hadjar replied flippantly, then eagerly grabbed a jug of water.

Not embarrassed at all by the witch’s presence, he threw off his clothes and poured the remnants of the cold water on himself. After pulling a sheet out from under Azrea, who hissed angrily, Hadjar wiped his face and body.

A few minutes later, he put on his own clothes and went out into the corridor with his friends. Thanks to the owners of the tavern, they now had a separate room where, if they so desired, they could have breakfast without causing a stir among the visitors.

“Isn’t scouting traditionally an adventure we do together?” Serra asked after the waitress brought them some ale and a light snack. Over the past few days, the girl had learned not to pay attention to the well-known and powerful guests.

“I’m more interested in where you got that cut on your neck…”

Serra’s eyes widened in surprise and she examined her friend more closely. Indeed, she could see a red line under Hadjar’s collar.

“I got hurt.”

“Hurt?” The witch barely choked out. “Who could hurt you? Did a Thunderbird dive down from the sky? Or was a tiger at the King Stage walking around the city last night?”

“Seriously, Hadj, that isn’t funny. You’re the strongest swordsman in the region. Only Primus and the Imperial Governor can keep up with you.”

Hadjar drank some ale, put a piece of meat in his mouth, and wasn’t surprised by the mewling that came from the floor. Azrea always came and left unnoticed and ignored any locks and obstacles that got in her way.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Well, try us.”

Hadjar looked at his friends, sighed, and described the battle. Surprisingly, they believed him. They didn’t even blame him for not helping that man. On the contrary, Hadjar saw the same emotions that were tormenting his own soul in Nero’s and Serra’s eyes.

They were also tired of fighting. This wasn’t about their progress on the path of cultivation. War was just... Very different from ‘simple’ cultivation.

If two practitioners fought in a duel, they always knew why they were trying to kill each other. However, in the war, each of these three ‘heroes’ had managed to snuff out thousands of lives. The lives of people who had perhaps been a little happier or guiltier than that same man Hadjar had refused to help. They didn’t think they had a right to consider themselves judges and arbiters, as their hands had been drenched in too much blood.

“Forget it,” Nero waved his hand and poured them all more ale. “As for the girl, I think one of the nobles hired a sectarian or an Imperial practitioner to train his daughter. That’s why her style seemed so familiar to you.”

“Maybe ...” Hadjar agreed.

They drank, ate, and laughed, forgetting about their pain and doubt. This lasted until the door opened and a familiar face showed itself.