Last Day of the Immortal, Dragon Heart Series book 21

Hadjar paused, making sure he was walking down the middle of the wide path. There was no real mystical allure to this path; it was simply a familiar one, worn down by the footsteps of many a traveler, all of whom had walked across the short steppe grass, its hue fading into the embrace of the autumn sun. Rolling hills stretched out in every direction, all the way to the distant horizon. A breeze whispered secrets to him, carrying with it the essence of steppe grass and flowers long past their prime. It was a sight not unfamiliar to Hadjar; he’d glimpsed it more than a handful of times in his life. But the sky — oh, the sky! — was another story entirely. It resembled a canvas upon which an over-enthusiastic apprentice had splashed all their pigments, mixing them carelessly. Purples and browns mingled, giving way to scarlet, which was quickly overshadowed by a dominant black, which bowed in a graceful waltz to the proud blue, which later paraded itself before a respectful turquoise. This riotous tapestry glittered, its radiance mirroring the sparkle of diamond fragments set down on a jeweler’s table. Undoubtedly, this was not the Nameless World Hadjar had come to know thus far. Or at least not the aspect commonly known to mere mortals, or perhaps even to the Immortals, the gods, and — speaking of them — the demons. “I know you’re here,” Hadjar’s voice carried a hint of annoyance, almost on the verge of an eye roll. A mischievous chuckle materialized beside him, and he felt a strange lump born of another’s fear form on his shoulder. It sprouted limbs reminiscent of the form it had had back in the Northern Lands, retrieved a tiny vial from its shadowy fur, and took a few indulgent sips. Strangely, it had no neck. “Hadji, my old friend!” Helmer’s voice dripped with his characteristic wit. “Fate is quite a comedian, isn’t she? I can’t believe she would have our paths cross in such an anomaly! It’s serendipitous, really.” Hadjar tried to swat away the disconcerting lump of fear, but his hand simply passed through it as if it were an apparition. He remembered an event from his past, “Back then, we were close to the Fae Summer Court…” “Close to it...” Helmer interjected cheerfully, “What lovely phrasing!” “...and you took refuge in my soul,” Hadjar continued, pretending that he didn’t understand Helmer’s playful jabs. “You left a trail, didn’t you? And then up in the North, too. You were never able to get through the gap in the barrier before, and so, instead, you went in there with me. That’s how you always find me.” The lump, mimicking a shrug, bobbed the area where most beings’ shoulders would be. “So, Hadji,” Helmer probed, “was it your newfound wisdom that brought such clarity, or perhaps the power you recently embraced?” Hadjar’s teeth clenched for a moment. Truth be told, he’d recognized the demon’s imprint the moment he’d assimilated the Quetzal bird and comprehended Soul Power. Or its intended purpose, anyway... These were subtleties he hadn’t yet allowed himself to fully ponder. “What do you think?” The demon inquired, gesturing with his bottle at the sword swinging at Hadjar’s hip. “About your newfound abilities? They are... exquisite, no?” Hadjar’s eyes wandered up to the roiling canvas of the sky, its colors intertwining in an eternal dance. Where did this newfound power come from? The Therna’s power was no stranger to him, but its previous influence had only been a trickling stream, mildly strengthening the Techniques he knew, and somehow tied to the energy of the World River. But now? Now it was a tempestuous deluge, threatening to obliterate anything not fortified against its wrath. And then there was the power that emanated from his very soul, radiating fervently within him. If he so wished it, the mighty storms of the North would answer the call of his Rule. This trio of forces — Therna, Soul Power, and his Rule — had harmonized with his mysteries, which had led Hadjar to ponder the rationale behind categorizing cultivators into levels and stages and so on. He was even questioning the very concept of a cultivator. He had never truly fought against an Immortal, save for his skirmish with the ape Immortal, Karn’Doon, in that anomaly so long ago. Fedenrir had been an exception. The wolf, newly freed and yet to regain his full power, had underestimated the General’s skill. It was only logical, too. Without the power Hadjar now wielded, it would have seemed ridiculous: a mortal, one without an energy body and a path of advancement, was somehow capable of feats beyond even the wildest fantasies of Heaven Emperors? It sounded more like the drunken tale of a lazy bard than reality. Why even pursue eons of growth when, at the culmination of it all- “You can’t embark with the journey halfway done, Hadjar,” the lump of fear interjected, an uncharacteristic solemnity in his tone. “All journeys must start at the beginning. If you hadn’t endured all that you have, you wouldn’t be standing here today.” Hadjar merely hummed in response. “Is that why you hid the True Name of the North from me when I was a child?” The demon echoed his pensive hum. “You remembered that, did you?” The lump of fear remarked before taking another sip. “I won’t ask for forgiveness, Hadji. It was a necessity.” His gaze never turned away from the kaleidoscopic sky as Hadjar smiled bitterly. He was acutely aware of his current position. The irony was not lost on him. Throughout his existence, this sensation, this state of being, had never truly left him: he understood the scenario at hand, but was powerless to change it. Even so, it was always an unsettling realization. “What other memories have you hidden from me?” The demon stammered, hastily wiping his ‘mouth.’ “A loaded question, Hadji,” he mused, reverting to his usual, frivolous demeanor. “But I’m not about to spend nearly three centuries arguing about your memory lapses.” A previously unnoticed rock on the path nearly caused Hadjar to trip. “Nearly three centuries, you say?” “You have got to be kidding me!” The demon retorted, brandishing his bottle with a spirited flair. “Did you really assume that crossing the Pool of Reflection would be as effortless as passing through a mundane door? It is a more arduous journey than that, my esteemed General. It’ll take 299 years, to be exact.” Hadjar scrutinized the lump on his shoulder, trying to determine if this was a joke. Alas, it wasn’t. “Still, I’m only-” Hadjar began. “Don’t deceive yourself,” the demon cut him off sternly. “You are as much a mortal as I am a sappy romantic. It’s staggering, the power you now wield. One wonders how your body can even withstand it. Perhaps it’s because of your diverse genetic makeup: a Fae lineage, aided by that unique orcish brew, Northern and draconic blood both coursing through your veins, a heart made of rarefied steel, the essence of ancient titans swirling in there for good measure, and skills honed over centuries. But no, that would be too much of a stretch. It must be sheer dumb luck, as has been your trademark thus far.” “I see,” Hadjar whispered, a realization dawning on him.