Path of Glory

6

The woman lunged forward. Her attack was no less skilled than that of an experienced swordsman. Although, it would probably be harder to not become proficient when one practiced swordsmanship for countless ages.

He dodged with the ease of someone avoiding a petulant child’s tantrum. It was worth noting that the woman had mostly practiced her swordsmanship against opponents who could hardly move a finger at the time. In midair, she turned around and kicked off a lamppost. Leaping over a bench, she landed right next to him. Her black blade came down toward Boreas’ head.

He easily slid back and, turning on his heel, hooked his foe’s leg, and then hit her chest. The woman flew back a dozen feet and crashed into an empty trash can. Leaving a dent in it, she stood up and assumed an offensive stance.

“I thought you used a scythe,” he said, calmly taking another cigarette out of the pack. Deftly catching it with his lips, Boreas lit it with his will and took a drag.

“You don’t know much, then,” the woman hissed, “I’ve always carried a sword.”

Poetic… A sword would break through the armor that protected a soul. And a scythe would cut a path through the overgrown roads leading to a soul.

“I’m not going with you just yet.”

“You don’t have a choice!” She pushed off again, this time from the pavement. The ancient stones creaked, but they held. Just as they’d once held when the bombs had fallen…

Sparks landed on his shoulders.

“What-”

The Blue Blade flashed with energy. The mysteries of the Blue Wind Sword Duchy unfolded like a steel flower. They swept the snow from the roofs, monuments, and statues. They made the granite of the curb tremble and twisted the iron fences and bars. The cars that had just recently been dusted with snow were now stripped of their white covers...

The sparks that were falling on the blue robes bounced off them and landed on the pavement. The blue robes had been made by Queen Mab herself, the Mistress of Winter and Darkness. At this time of year, they were as solid and sturdy as they could possibly be.

“Hadjar Darkhan, North Wind,” he said in a firm tone. “I still remember my name, which means I’m not under your power yet, hag.”

Hadjar dashed to the side and, turning his wrist, parried her attack, slashing at her swiftly. The tip of the Blue Blade cut across the space between them. Behind it, a blue spark stretched out, from which a stream of wind burst forth. It struck the woman’s chest, silencing her scream of rage and despair, and then it sliced through not only her body, but also reality itself.

***

Hadjar was standing in the middle of a simple training ground. Sand filled his bast shoes, and a wind ruffled his old, worn clothes. A leather strap swayed, holding back his long, black hair, which was in a tight ponytail.

“Where am I?”

Overhead, clouds drifted across the azure sky.

“In my memories,” a familiar voice answered him.

Hadjar turned around and raised his sword. White Fang was standing across from him. Except he looked a little different now — there wasn’t anything artificial about him. There was reason in his eyes, his movements were more human, and he spoke without pauses.

“What is-”

“You don’t have time for reflection or meditation. I needed your help to regain what I lost. I took what I wanted from you, and now my honor commands me to give you your due compensation in return.”

Hadjar wanted to say that he didn’t understand, but apparently, it was already written all over his face.

“We have the same Master, Hadjar Darkhan, North Wind. You and I both possess the knowledge handed down to us by the Black General, the first Darkhan.”

“Who are you, by the demons?” Hadjar exclaimed loudly in frustration.

White Fang plunged his sword into the ground in front of him. He straightened up and suddenly felt like a huge, immovable mountain.

“My name is Erhard, the Last King and the First Emperor. I’m the first disciple of the Black General, the greatest swordsman in the history of the Nameless World. I’m Erhard Darkhan.”

 

E

rhard... Hadjar had heard that name more than once. It had all started a few years ago, in the Wastelands. The Black General had shown Hadjar the past of the Last King, the strongest swordsman of his time, the one who’d managed to not only conquer the Hundred Kingdoms, but had also unified them into a single country. And he’d done all of that with only his sword and will.

However, his story had ended very suddenly and tragically. Erhard had been betrayed. As was often the case, no matter how strong a warrior was, if they had a weakness, it would definitely be found and used against them. For Erhard, his will had been such a weakness. The will of his heart. The Last King’s lover had been used against him. He’d been betrayed and killed.

“But you…” Hadjar didn’t understand what was happening. “You’re dead. You were run through by a spear and-”

“A spear?” Erhard interrupted him. “Is that what you know about my battle against my advisors? No, junior disciple, I wasn’t stabbed. I was dismembered. A spell was cast on each of my limbs. After doing that, they hid me in a sarcophagus made of magic metal and stone, bound it with magic chains, then buried all of that in an ancient rock. And then the rock itself was hidden underground, within the depths of a lava lake.”

“Well, that explains your overall twitchiness and your unintelligible speech,” Hadjar whispered under his breath. “But how did you…”

It dawned on him. The answer was right there, staring him in the face. How could the Last King, slain ages ago, walk this nameless world once again? Because, half a year ago, a vengeful cultivator, who’d received power from the God of War, had decided to raise an army of the dead. Despite all the attempts of Hadjar and his squad, Derek of the Steppe had managed to implement his plan. Along with the weak dead who’d blindly followed the call of his necromancy, the Last King had risen from the bowels of the world as well.

“My will was strong, junior disciple,” Erhard held out his hand and took out a yellow silk ribbon from his pocket. It didn’t exactly match the extremely masculine and warlike image of this ruler from ancient times. Considering how gently and carefully he held it, and how slowly he tied his hair back into a ponytail with it, it became abundantly clear who exactly had once owned the ribbon. “Besides, even though my actual cultivation level was much lower than yours, I could use…”

Hadjar heard Erhard say something, but he couldn’t make out what it was. The Last King stared at Hadjar and then shook his head slightly.