Path to the Unknown, Dragon Heart Series Book 11

D ahanatan greeted the three cultivators riding in on horses, courtesy of the Fifth Legion, with the eerie silence of midnight. The hour when, according to old legends, witches would try to steal the souls of newborns. Mortals called it, ‘the witching hour’. However, it was one thing for a town of mere mortals to be silent, and quite another for the capital of Darnassus, the city of a thousand lights and countless inhabitants, to be so eerily still, even at midnight. Its walls, which seemed high enough to reach the sky, could’ve also served as avenues, as three carriages or four carts could’ve easily passed each other atop them. In the center rose a thin spire, the skyport, which usually looked like a disturbed hive, with thousands of skyships moored at various levels and almost as many taking off or landing there. People went about their daily business in the streets, and at night, they went out for a walk, to have fun, or to continue their eternal celebration of life. The capital of the Empire was always full of life... Always, except right now: empty streets and avenues were the norm, along with closed shutters. Sometimes, the iron heels of boots rattled as the guardsmen were sent out on another patrol. “It’s because of the curfew,” Rekka explained to Einen and Hadjar, who were following her. “After ten o’clock in the evening, anyone found to still be out on the streets will be thoroughly searched and questioned.” Hadjar looked toward the Forbidden City. Due to the fact that the Emperor’s Palace was located in a low area and was surrounded by high walls and an impenetrable magical dome, there was no way to see what was happening there right now. But he could at least see the administrative center, the most exclusive street, where the houses, or rather, the palaces of rich nobles were. That was also where the atelier Hadjar had gone to before the ill-fated reception at the Palace was. Lady Brahmi’s atelier was located almost in the dead center of Eighth Avenue, where, in order to build a house, you had to have enough Imperial coin to drown several horses in. Considering how much Hadjar had spent on a single outfit there, he didn’t doubt Brahmi’s wealth. “Of course, that doesn’t apply to all the districts,” Rekka answered their silent question, and immediately nodded in the direction of two aristocratic districts to the north of the city: the elven district, which looked more like a park, and the Predatory Blades clan’s district, hidden from the outside world by high walls. They, just like the districts of the other five aristocratic families, were as lively and as bright as ever. Compared to the lights burning there, the rest of the capital looked somewhat depressing and gloomy. “They have their own defenses,” Rekka continued, “We need to hurry. Or rather, you need to hurry, Hadjar. The Emperor didn’t invite Einen and me.” “If he really wants me to hurry, I could get to his Palace in an instant.” Rekka, without stopping her horse, turned around. Her gray hair was pulled back in a tight bun and glistened slightly. No matter how powerful a cultivator was, they were still people as well. Apparently, once she’d found herself in the chambers of the Forbidden City reserved for the guard corps, she’d immediately made sure she looked presentable. Hadjar noticed some blush, a bit of light lipstick, mascara on her lashes, some kind of hair ointment, and new, spacious clothes. People were people, even if they were immensely powerful… “You’ve grown stronger, Hadjar, much stronger. By the gods and demons, I don’t even know for sure just how much stronger you are now, or how you managed to achieve that in such a short time. But don’t delude yourself into thinking you’re as powerful as your Master, may his forefathers accept him. Even the great swordsman Orune had trouble breaking through the protective dome of the Forbidden City with the ‘White Lightning Step’ Technique.” Rekka turned away with a snort of disdain. Hadjar looked at the magic symbol floating over the Forbidden City. Unlike other, similar magic symbols, it wasn’t made from dense energy, but actual stone. Now that he was a Lord, Hadjar felt the world around him differently. He’d changed more than Rekka could ever imagine. And thanks to those changes, he was aware of the fact that, if he wanted to, and had ten seconds, he could break through the barrier and get in using the ‘White Lightning Step’ Technique, even though it was nowhere near as potent as his Master’s had been. But he simply didn’t care enough to prove anything to anyone. “Don’t you think, barbarian” Einen whispered in one of the dialects from the Islands, “that you owe me a story. And besides, I want to know what effect the One Hundred Voices Pill had.” Hadjar raised an eyebrow. “I’m not planning to make another one, barbarian,” the islander said in his usual, calm manner. “I didn’t mean to offend you, baldy,” he responded immediately. Taking a deep breath, he began his tale: “It all started when I merged with the other half of my soul and we, well... I mean... I broke the Sword Spirit’s seal...” *** The knowledge required to use the final strike of the ‘Sword of Four Strikes’ Technique came to Hadjar on its own. He’d gotten no explanations or training from the Black General. It just appeared in his mind, filled his arms, and changed his energy channels again, making them even stronger than they already were. At first, Hadjar had assumed that the first strike, the ‘Flying Sword’, released a murderous amount of energy and mysteries in order to hit the greatest number of enemies possible, but he soon realized that he’d been using it incorrectly. The ‘Flying Sword’ really did do the greatest damage possible, but only to one target, finishing a fight with a monstrous attack that destroyed a foe’s armor, body and, if they were weak enough, their very soul. The final strike, that bore the simple, but ever so comprehensive name, the ‘Sword’, was created in order to destroy everything that a swordsman could reach with it. When Hadjar had unleashed this power and struck the Sword Spirit’s seal shining above the shard of darkness he’d been standing on, he’d hit not one, not two of his neural network’s markers, but all the remaining ones simultaneously. With just one attack, monstrous in its complexity and power, he’d destroyed the Sword Spirit’s mark. As he’d fallen toward the meadow in his soul world, the last thing Hadjar had thought about was whether this Technique had been a parting gift from the Enemy or something else entirely.