He immediately recognized some of them. For example, the two piles of Baliumian gold coins. Before, they would’ve been very valuable to him, but now... Hadjar was now eagerly staring at nine imperial coins instead, each of which was worth at least five thousand simple gold coins. In all honesty, the Patriarch hadn’t really been rich. There were only eleven imperial coins in here. But even that was a lot, given how ‘leaky’ Hadjar’s pockets were.
He also saw two flasks. One of them, made from an unknown, extremely hard glass, contained a substance that Hadjar instinctively recoiled from. The muddy brew beating against the walls like it was trying to break out was the poison that had nearly killed Nero. Remembering how the Patriarch had claimed that one drop was enough to poison a whole city... Well, this would be enough to exterminate the entirety of a small province in southern Lidus.
Nearby, in the other bottle, was a similar substance, except it was green. There were only three drops of it in the bottle. It was the antidote. The very thing that Hadjar had sacrificed the Inheritance of the Immortal’s Shadow for. However, he’d never regretted it.
The following two objects gave Hadjar pause.
A fair distance away from each other, a red pill and an incredibly ancient scroll seemed to dominate the space. The energy oozing from the cherry-sized pill made Hadjar want to vomit. It seemed as if so much pain, blood, and despair had been poured into it, into just this one, small pill, that it would be enough for several generations of people to endure. Hadjar heard the screams of the dying, their pleas and prayers to everyone: the gods, demons, spirits, the world, and their relatives. They begged them for help. But no one came. Their despair — the absolute loss of even the tiniest shred of hope — oozed from the pill. It emitted a sense of power, promising the ability to subdue all these cries, but Hadjar, without even touching the abomination, sensed the price that would have to be paid for such power. He remembered the Spirit Knight, Raven Wing, with whom the Patriarch had spoken before his death, and how skeptical he’d been about this kind of ‘medicine’. Hadjar now understood why. The one who took the pill would probably advance to the initial stage of the Spirit Knight level. However, the person would most likely not retain their sanity or be able to advance ever again. The red pill gave one terrible power, but it also limited them, trapping the cultivator at the level of a weak Knight until the end of their days. Many from the barbarian kingdoms, and perhaps the Empire itself, would’ve gladly agreed to this. After all, most cultivator’s chances of becoming a Spirit Knight, even after a thousand years, were extremely low. And on the other hand, how many geniuses were born in wealthy clans and families who reached this point by thirty? The envy and powerlessness of those who coveted others’ success weren’t the best advisers.
And yet, Hadjar overcame his urge to destroy the pill. Even in the face of imminent death, he wouldn’t use it, because death was better than losing his soul. Maybe he could find some other use for it, apart from selling it, of course. Hadjar wasn’t going to be responsible for creating a crazy demon that thirsted for the blood of others.
As for the scroll, that was the only thing that really interested Hadjar. It was old, shabby, not made out of paper or papyrus, but some kind of fabric instead, a silvery and slightly flickering one. However, it was difficult to estimate how magnificent the fabric had once been, because now it was covered in green spots. In some places, the threads had even torn loose.
Hadjar didn’t know how to take anything out of the ring, but as soon as he thought about it, he felt the cool fabric in his hand. Opening his eyes, he saw that his right hand really was clutching the scroll. It looked exactly the same as it had inside the ring now that it was in the physical world. By the Evening Stars, something inside Hadjar longed to read it. Hadjar was usually able to resist temptation. This was one of those rare moments where he gave in.
With a trembling hand, Hadjar unfurled the scroll. Inside, on the threads, he found the faded portrait of a man. He wore black armor with a blue belt, and held a black sword in his hands, the image depicting him swinging the sword down.
Hadjar looked at the image for only an instant, and then abruptly folded the scroll back up. Something inside Hadjar desperately wanted to see more, but his instincts were screaming at him that it would be dangerous. Gritting his teeth from a sudden, sharp pain in his chest area, he put his hand over it. When he moved it away, he saw that it was covered in blood.
On Hadjar’s chest, starting from his navel and going almost all the way up to his clavicle, was a cut. It was as if some invisible entity had struck him with a sword, grazing his flesh with only the tip of their blade. This had been caused by just a split-second glance at the portrait which now seemed to be carved into Hadjar’s memory. He could remember it easily, but he felt like he couldn’t ‘look at it’ for more than a few minutes. The level of Sword Spirit mastery concentrated in that single movement of the swordsman wasn’t just incredible, but left even the most powerful Techniques that the Shadow of the Immortal had been able to show him far in the dust.
“Where did the Patriarch find this?” Hadjar whispered, trying to figure out how to put the scroll back in the ring.
First, he put the ring on the scroll, then vice versa, then he tried saying:
“Go back.”
None of it worked. Hadjar, still holding his hand over his wound (more out of shock than pain), mentally slipped back into the ring. Immediately, he found himself back in the small space where the rest of the Patriarch’s things were stored. Now, after just thinking about returning the scroll, Hadjar saw it in front of him. Back in reality, his hand was once again empty.
Emerging from the ring, Hadjar looked at the destroyed steal. Well, he had to repair it now. Imaging the needle once more, Hadjar began to sew the seal back up. Only this time, using his own energy, he embroidered a completely different coat of arms on it.
He lacked neither the power nor the energy required, but just as before, he was too clumsy, so it was a very crude seal. The seams were visible to the naked eye, and energy was clearly leaking from them. The shield he’d made was weaker than the previous one. But even so, no one except Hadjar, at least on their first attempt, would be able to access the ring. That would be enough.
Opening his eyes, Hadjar sighed quietly. The simple but rather elegant gold ring now looked rusty and dented. He could easily put it on his finger now. No one would suspect it was a spatial artifact.
“I didn’t think you could handle it.”
“Damn it!” Hadjar jumped in surprise.
That damned islander... Because of his perpetually half-closed eyes, it was difficult to determine when he was sleeping, when he was meditating, and when he was carefully observing someone.
“It’s good that you were able to open it,” Einen almost yawned, “it might come in handy.”
“I thought so as well,” Hadjar nodded. “Get some sleep. We don’t know what kind of creatures we’ll have to fight tomorrow...”
Hadjar stopped talking. Judging by his even and slightly louder breathing, Einen had fallen asleep again.
“May the algae in the sea love you...”
“Barbarian.”
“Damn it!” Hadjar was startled again.
The damned islander hadn’t fallen asleep after all... Hadjar hated his friend sometimes.