Chapter 343
The tunnel that the monsters came out of looked like a city sewer after a week of artillery bombardment, if there’d been claws, fangs, needles, and acid sacs tied to the shells. The aura left behind by the animals had accumulated in the stones and would’ve made any weak practitioner tremble and cover, drenched in icy sweat.
Hadjar didn’t feel anything like that, but Paris was clearly warding such a feeling off with the help of an amulet glowing with a faint light. These kinds of artifacts looked like strips of red paper with magical signs, runes, and hieroglyphs written on them in black ink.
“I still don’t understand why they had to build the entrance to the laboratory here,” the Principal Researcher shrugged.
They’d just started walking through the tunnel, but sweat was already flowing down Paris’ forehead. At the same time, Hadjar felt the Scholar emanating power that was no less than a true cultivator’s might. Such a contrast immediately intrigued him and made him wonder what this so-called ‘true path’ of cultivation was... and if it was even ‘true’ to begin with?
They climbed up a spiral staircase for a quarter of an hour. During the climb, Paris began to look even worse and was out of breath by the end! Hadjar couldn’t understand it. Even the weakest practitioner could’ve run up and down these stairs for at least an hour before they felt the first signs of fatigue. Knowing that, even if he asked his question, he still wouldn’t get an answer, Hadjar continued to walk in silence.
Finally, they reached a very busy floor. People were scurrying from room to room, holding huge scrolls or tablets in their hands. Someone was screaming and giving orders. Most of the people present were wearing glasses. That was also weird: practitioners’ eyesight always improved. Over the course of his entire life in this world, Hadjar had never met people who wore glasses before now.
“Is all of this new to you, Northerner?” Paris spoke with great difficulty, breathing heavily and rubbing his face with a handkerchief. “I’ve heard that the northern kingdoms have forgotten the true path of cultivation.”
“And, of course, you won’t tell me anything about it.”
Paris just spread his hands helplessly.
“Don’t think that I don’t want to. Don’t you dare think that I intend to treat you like a slave. In our city, that kind of infection was removed a long time ago. Alas, only the Sage can teach you properly.”
Paris put his hand on Hadjar’s shoulder so that he wouldn’t try to turn in the wrong direction. Apparently, Paris didn’t want to say things out loud. Or maybe this was also knowledge that only the Sage could provide. Right now, even someone mouthing the words ‘the true path’ could’ve driven Hadjar crazy.
“If there is no slavery down here, then what is this?” Hadjar pointed at his blue amulet.
“A precaution,” Paris shrugged. “Our city is hidden for a reason, Northerner. By the way, for a stranger, your mastery of the desert language is very impressive. Do you have a good ear for music by any chance?”
Hadjar realized that the Researcher wanted to change the subject. The northerner still wanted to find out some things about this place, but didn’t press the issue.
“Once upon a time, I made a living by playing the Ron’Jah.”
“The Ron’Jah? That’s a string instrument from the northern kingdoms, isn’t it? I only heard it played once when I traveled through the Sea of Sand and ran into a caravan.” Paris suddenly rummaged through his pockets and fished out a simple stone die. “Here you are. This is a pass to my area. Come visit me tonight. I have a collection of musical instruments, and among them is an old Ron’Jah. We’ll drink tea or wine, smoke a hookah, listen to music, and talk.”
As befits a desert dweller, after extending his invitation, Paris saluted: he put two fingers to his lips, then to his heart, then to his forehead, and finally, he ‘sent’ a kiss to the sky. Or rather, to the stars.
“Wait, Karissa said that we could go wherever we wished,” Hadjar said, but he still took the die.
“Sure you can, but you won’t be let in everywhere,” the Researcher almost winked as he said it. “Follow me.”
They arrived at a darkened room, the entrance to which was covered by a mat that served as a door. Hadjar suddenly realized that it was much stuffier and hotter here than in the rest of the building. There was a low stela inside, made from red, monolithic stone covered in hieroglyphs that Hadjar had never seen before. At first, it seemed like it was just a simple inscription, but the more he peered at the letters, the more clearly he understood that he might get lost in them, so complex and skillfully arranged they were. The man who’d created this had definitely been at a much higher level than a mere Spirit Knight.
“Just don’t try to look too closely at its energy,” Paris warned, “unless, of course, you want to suffer from a terrible migraine for the next couple of weeks.”
Hadjar just nodded abruptly. He’d once looked at the spatial ring and was no longer eager to repeat that kind of unpleasant experience.
“What is it?”
Paris went over to the stone and pulled out a small, golden bowl. Apparently, he had been in here so often that the artifact didn’t make him feel much trepidation or admiration.
“It’s a Soul Stone. It helps us measure a person’s talent. Not flawlessly, of course, but it’s quite commonly used, even the Imperial legions accept new recruits only after they’ve been checked by one.”
“But where does it come from? Who creates these stones for the Empire?”
“Well, certainly not the Imperials themselves,” Paris snorted. “Even if Lords do roam their lands, they can’t create such splendor with just their power.”
“Lords?” Hadjar asked.
Paris turned to him and tilted his head curiously.
“Well, you didn’t think that the level of Spirit Knight was the finish line of the cultivation path, did you?”
Hadjar didn’t answer. To be completely honest, he’d believed that, after the Spirit Knight level was reached, by employing some insanely complex and difficult method, a person could then become an Immortal. He’d never even heard about the Lord level.
Demons and gods! Evening Stars!
He looked at the stone again and gulped nervously. How vast this world truly was and how long the path of cultivation!
“Now look.” Paris went over to Hadjar. He had the golden cup in his left hand and a long needle in his right. “I’ll take a bit of your blood, mix it with a special solution, and then mold it on the stone. I can understand the direction and depth of your talent according to the color of the hieroglyphs that appear. However, I need your consent.”
Hadjar looked at the stela, then at the Researcher, and then at the stela again. Over the years he’d spent wandering, serving in the army, and traveling through the desert, he’d learned to read people quite well (although he’d failed with Ilmena). Hadjar believed that Paris didn’t wish him any harm. Right now, at least.
“I agr-”
Even before Hadjar finished speaking, the Researcher thrust the needle into his palm, and then dripped the blood into the bowl. He added the solution, mixed them up, and then really splashed the contents onto the red stone vigorously. The scarlet liquid spread out, filling the furrows which formed the hieroglyphs.