Closing his eyes, Hadjar extended his left arm forward. He now understood a little more and could see a little farther. This was enough for the stream of power that surged out from his palm to take on the shape of a barely perceptible blade. It plunged into the ground right in front of Hadjar, and the cone, upon hitting it, broke around it like a wave crashing into a tall stone jutting out of the ground.
Two smaller waves of power rushed past Hadjar. They covered the entire arena, hitting the walls, but didn’t even touch the edges of his clothes.
The beast growled louder still. Drops of saliva fell from its jaws, hissing as they burned and melted the sand. Rising up on its hind legs, the wolf crashed back down on its front paws with great force. The ground shook from the impact and the walls cracked. Stone crumbled down from the distant ceiling.
As the attack landed, emerald needles began to burst out of the ground. They were long and sharp, like spears. They blew up the arena floor, scattering the sand and whistling through the air. Hadjar didn’t so much as blink.
He moved his blade behind his back, adjusted his frayed, old clothes, and, mimicking the wolf, kicked the sand hard. The stream of sword energy entered the ground, and then almost invisible blades appeared out of the sand and rushed toward the emerald spears. Colliding in the center, they clashed against each other. The wolf growled, pushing its paws into the sand. Its fur shone brighter and the number of the spears increased sharply.
Hadjar only grinned and, after tracing a figure eight in the air, thrust his blade into the sand. Now there were more of his swords than the wolf’s spears. Hadjar’s eyes lit up slightly, the sleeping dragon within them unfolded its wings slowly, and a stream of blue energy swirled at Hadjar’s feet. The World River’s power added to the Sword’s power. The blades bursting from the ground immediately became more distinct. They easily cut through the emerald spears. The wolf, a beast with a child’s mind, jumped to the side.
Landing a couple of yards away from the place where the sand had been pierced by the blades, it looked at its right paw. A trickle of flickering, greenish blood was flowing down it. For the first time in decades, someone had managed to injure it. The beast’s eyes were clouded with the bloody veil of the hunting instincts it had inherited from its ancestors. It opened its mouth to release a horizontal tornado of green flame.
“Calm Wind,” Hadjar said, assuming the second stance of the ‘Light Breeze’ Sword Technique.
A stream of wind came down around Hadjar like a wall. The sand was compacted by it, becoming denser than paving stones. The stream of green fire struck the wall of wind and crumbled, making the wall hiss and melt. Apparently, it wasn’t a fire, but a type of acid.
The wolf didn’t stop. It slashed forward several times, hurling dozens of green crescents from its claws. Cutting through the space between them, they rained down upon Hadjar’s defenses. The warrior didn’t change his stance and calmly watched the wall of wind cracking and crumbling. He had wondered how much stronger he’d gotten after the battle for the caravan. With every second he spent battling the beast, he understood that he had to become even stronger.
Hadjar swung his blade with an inhuman roar and cried out: “Strong Wind!”
A tsunami burst forth from behind Hadjar as he swung, and in its depths, a ghostly dragon danced back and forth restlessly. A wave of cutting wind smashed through and scattered the emerald crescents and then struck the wolf. It threw back its head, howled, and a green sphere flashed into existence around it. It shook and crumpled, but withstood the Technique’s might.
The wolf, after spending almost all its energy on defending itself, was too exhausted to notice that its foe had turned into the Six Ravens’ shadow. Disappearing in a blur of movement, he reappeared next to the beast a moment later. Compared to this mountain of muscles and fur, Mountain Wind looked like a toothpick. However, it was all Hadjar needed to end this.
By the time the tsunami finally spent itself against the green dome and the wolf tried to locate its enemy, it was already too late. Swirling patches of black fog appeared around his blade and Hadjar attacked, crying out: “Spring Wind!”
His lunge, reinforced several times over by Traves’ Technique, turned into a long, black ribbon that seemed to surge through the air and then pierced the wolf’s chest.
Turning into the Ravens’ shadow again, Hadjar put some distance between him and the wolf and returned to the spot where he’d been at the beginning of the battle. It took him less time than it took an average person to clench their fist.
The beast, which didn’t yet realize what had happened, decided to try and beat Hadjar in melee. It tensed its hind legs and blurred into an emerald thread, jumping forward, but fell to the ground with a roar.
Its body, driven by sheer inertia, leaving a trail of green blood behind, slid across the floor until it was stopped by Hadjar’s foot. He looked into the beast’s glassy eyes. The wolf was dead, but not even the barest hint of regret could be seen in its eyes. It had devoted its whole life to the struggle and then died in battle. It was the destiny of anyone who followed the path of cultivation and power.
Hadjar didn’t think about cutting out the beast’s core, although he wouldn’t have refused a King’s core. A few months had passed since he’d found something like this in Brom’s hidden casket and he’d been mad with joy at the time. Back in those ‘distant’ times, it had seemed like something unattainable to him. Admittedly, Brom had had the core of a King at the high point of the Stage, which was equal in power to a Heaven Knight.
“Good work, Northerner,” came from the huge arch from which the beast had entered.
A group of people wearing scarlet caftans and yellow turbans stepped out onto the sand of the arena. They hurried to clear away the sand and collect blood, emerald dust, fangs, and fur from the wolf and store them in test tubes and bottles.
Among the Scholars, or whatever they were, stood Karissa. Armed with a long, curved dagger, she climbed up the beast’s side and began to cut out its core.
A man came up to Hadjar. He was tall and slim, with multicolored eyes, brown and gray, a little crooked nose, and an equally crooked smile. A large topaz glittered in his yellow turban.
“Principal Researcher Paris,” he introduced himself and saluted in the local manner.
“Hadjar Darkhan.”
“Desert Wind Blowing from the North,” the Scholar said, looking at the Bedouin tattoo on Hadjar’s arm. “A good name. Ancient.”
“I’ve already heard that,” Hadjar answered without rudeness.
“Of course,” the Scholar nodded. He looked around, gave several orders, and turned back to Hadjar. “Follow me, Northerner. I need to measure the level of your talent.”
“Measure the level of my talent?”
Hadjar drew back in hesitation at the wording.
“Don’t worry,” Paris waved his hand dismissively, “it’s an absolutely painless and quick procedure. It’s done in every school, clan, or sect in the Empire. Besides, you’ll have to wait a long time for your friend. The servants have to clean up here, then prepare the next beast... Let’s go do something productive.”
Hadjar, after glancing at the arch he’d come from, followed Paris.