Path of Glory

8

“Lose your mind?” Erhard asked. “Did a mind demon try to rip your brain out of your head? Is that what you’re talking about?”

Hadjar just shook his head. Erhard had lived several eons ago, so some modern expressions naturally sounded completely different to the Last King.

“It doesn’t matter,” Hadjar said. “What are we doing in your memory, Erhard?”

The white-haired swordsman frowned again:

“I used to decapitate people for being so casual with me... but considering you’re my Master’s junior disciple, I think it’s fine for us to talk like buddies. Well, Hadjar, we’re here so that I can pay you back and-“

“Explain, please,” Hadjar cut him off. “I still don’t understand why you decided to kill me, and why you think you now owe me something.”

“I owe you because I took something from you.” Erhard looked calm, but Hadjar saw a hint of impatience in the depths of his gray eyes. “As White Fang, I lived like I was floating through a dream. I was driven only by some very deep principles and emotions, or instincts, if you will, you carrier of beast blood.”

“Let’s forget about the xenophobia, okay? My dragon ancestor was a great man... dragon, whatever. That’s why I don’t care about your opinion when it comes to beasts.”

Erhard, whose sword was once again stuck in the ground, just crossed his arms and chuckled:

“The fact you’re proud of your ancestors and want to protect their honor says a lot about your own honor, junior disciple… Well, I can accept the fact that you have the blood of those who killed the other half of me coursing through your veins.”

Hadjar jerked back, stunned:

“But you were betrayed by your advisors…” Then it dawned on him. “You accepted dragons as your advisors?”

Erhard looked away. For the first time, he refused to make eye contact.

“Alchemy,” Hadjar guessed. “Techniques. Knowledge… Did they offer you all of that?”

“I needed an army, junior disciple. Who, if not you, can understand me?”

“I do understand you,” Hadjar nodded, “and I don’t blame you.”

They watched the young man training in silence for a while.

“I’m not a good teacher, Hadjar,” Erhard said at last. “So, I’ll leave it up to someone who can actually teach you. Now listen carefully. I don’t think I need to explain that if you don’t complete the meditation of comprehension, you and I will both go to our forefathers.”

“Why both of us?”

“Because I not only destroyed your heart with my attack, but, so that you wouldn’t die before your time, I bound mine and yours together. If yours stops, mine will also stop.”

Hadjar’s eyes narrowed again.

“Or maybe you did it, oh great Last King, to benefit from some of my, as you call it, meditation of comprehension?”

Erhard just smiled in a predatory manner.

“Listen carefully, Hadjar. Our Master is about to speak.”

Hadjar had his qualms about calling the first Darkhan ‘their Master,’ but he decided to keep quiet for now. In the end, whether he survived or not would depend on how well he could cope with this next impossible task.

“Come here, Erhard,” the Black General’s voice, who was sitting with his back to Hadjar and Erhard, sounded weary and old, like a creaking dresser that hadn’t been repaired or oiled for many decades.

“Yes, Master.” The young Erhard swung his sword, drenching the grass with sweat, and approached his Master.

The Black General rose from the rock and approached his disciple. He loomed over Erhard... like a dried-up tree that stood alone in the middle of a vast desert. Hadjar knew that he wasn’t actually the real first Darkhan, but merely one of the living fragments of his soul. Not a phantom that lived in other people’s souls, but a real consciousness that had its own flesh and blood. Something like a clone.

“Tell me, Erhard, what do you see when you hold a sword?” The Black General took the boy’s simple blade from his hand. Mortal steel. With no magic or energy. It was supposed to be used to cut bread or meat, not to fight with. Admittedly, Hadjar had already seen what such a ‘useless piece of metal’ was capable of in Erhard’s hands.

“I see a weapon, Master,” the young boy replied. “A weapon I can use to avenge my mother and father. And then reclaim the throne that is rightfully mine.”

Hadjar shuddered. The boy’s words resonated with his soul and echoed in his mind. It would’ve been stupid to think that his story was unique. In this world, where only power ruled, there were as many children who wanted to get justice for their dead parents as there were grains of sand on a beach.

“And that’s why you won’t be able to achieve true mastery.” The Black General raised the sword in front of him. He swung its point through the air. “When you hold a sword in your hand, you direct your path.” Then he brought it back down slowly, as if putting it in a sheath. “The sword is only a reflection of what you can put into it, Erhard. So tell me, what will you put in yours?”

As he asked this, a tall mountain peak ten miles away suddenly cracked. It crashed to the ground with a loud boom. The mountain that had once pierced the clouds had been split in half. Hadjar hadn’t sensed any disturbances in the streams of the World River. The Black General had cut through the mountain without using any mysteries or energies. He’d done so with a simple swing of his sword.

“Holy shit…”

 

“W

hat was that?”

Hadjar and Erhard were once again standing on the sand of a simple training ground. The river, the Black General, and the young Last King had disappeared.

“That was the most important lesson I ever learned from my Master.” Erhard was standing across from him, a tall, broad-shouldered, formidable warrior from the past, the monster in some children’s stories, and the hero of others. “You will either come to understand its depths, or we will both die.”

“By all the demons, how am I supposed to understand the Black General’s words if I’m currently lying in the mud with your fucking sword buried in my heart?”

“Calm your soul, Hadjar Darkhan,” Erhard’s eyes flashed. “A warrior shouldn’t flounder like a fish caught in a net. Your mind must be clear and cool. Your heart must be hot. Your body must be controlled, no matter what. Your hands must be strong. Your eyes must be sharp. You’re in this world right now. It doesn’t matter whether it’s an illusion or not. You’re a warrior facing an enemy — your own unwillingness to see the truth.