“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Well, try us.”
Hadjar looked at his friends, sighed, and described the battle. Surprisingly, they believed him. They didn’t even blame him for not helping that man. On the contrary, Hadjar saw the same emotions that were tormenting his own soul in Nero’s and Serra’s eyes.
They were also tired of fighting. This wasn’t about their progress on the path of cultivation. War was just... Very different from ‘simple’ cultivation.
If two practitioners fought in a duel, they always knew why they were trying to kill each other. However, in the war, each of these three ‘heroes’ had managed to snuff out thousands of lives. The lives of people who had perhaps been a little happier or guiltier than that same man Hadjar had refused to help. They didn’t think they had a right to consider themselves judges and arbiters, as their hands had been drenched in too much blood.
“Forget it,” Nero waved his hand and poured them all more ale. “As for the girl, I think one of the nobles hired a sectarian or an Imperial practitioner to train his daughter. That’s why her style seemed so familiar to you.”
“Maybe ...” Hadjar agreed.
They drank, ate, and laughed, forgetting about their pain and doubt. This lasted until the door opened and a familiar face showed itself.
“The celebration has been postponed until this evening,” Ralpie reported. “A coach will arrive to take you there tonight. You and Lady Rowena. She wants to instruct you on the way there.”
Rowena was the name of that female official that had schemed against the Moon Army and personally caused Hadjar a lot of pain.
The friends looked at each other again, and Nero held out his bowl.
“Shall we toast to the Princess’ health?”
“To the Princess’ health!” Serra and Hadjar shouted together.
Chapter 192
one of them got too drunk because there simply wasn’t enough alcohol in the tavern to get three retired military officers at the Transformation of the Mortal Shell stage to get drunk. Ralpie, having decided that his duties as the messenger of the Generals had been fulfilled, joined his friends.
They enjoyed themselves and told Ralpie stories from their past. The young man was glad to listen to the heroes’ recollections. He especially liked the story where Dogar (may the forefathers be kind to him) had made Nero run along the parade ground while Hadjar was busy trying to fix a dummy that kept hitting his head the entire time.
These were good stories, amusing, harmless, and with a slight touch of sadness. Right then, the trio looked very ordinary, like any other group of friends returning from a war that never truly ended.
“I remember you saying that you can play the Ron’Jah,” Nero proclaimed suddenly, turning to his best friend.
Hadjar looked at the stage. It had already been repaired and the bards were now playing on it. The ‘Drunk Goose’ had become so popular that its doors no longer closed at night.
“Yeah,” Hadjar nodded.
Surprising his friends with his calm acceptance, he rose and walked out the door. His faithful companions followed after him. Together, greeted by a growing silence, they descended to the first floor.
The shouting and laughter subsided, replaced by an all-consuming attention directed toward the famous heroes. Leaving his friends at one of the tables which had been immediately been offered to them by some courteous guests, Hadjar climbed onto the stage.
He came up to one of the bards.
“May I?” He stretched his hand out. “I swear on the graves of my ancestors, I’ll be careful with it.”
“Y-yes, of course, please.”
The bard gave him the dearest and most valuable possession of any musician — their instrument — without hesitation. Hadjar nodded and sat down in the empty chair. He stretched his legs and laid the instrument more comfortably across them. He caressed the strings, enjoying the clear sound of the high-quality and well-maintained musical instrument.
Hadjar closed his eyes and set off on a mental journey to those distant, almost epic times when he’d had only music. It had been his homeland, his friend, his means of survival, and a place where his body and soul could find comfort.
He started playing. For the first time, after three and a half years of the endless war, he played his favorite childhood songs. They were simple, fun, and catchy. He played and, through the songs, spoke about the wind running through the treetops; how deeply and passionately people could love each other; about friendship and joy.
The strings burned with passion, then they laughed childishly. Hadjar played and felt his sword come to life. Moon Beam shed its defiled outer layer, all the bloody stains acquired during the years of war. Along with this layer, with the help of the music, the Mad General disappeared into the past.
But not because he’d been dismissed by the corrupt Generals. Just then, at that moment, Hadjar finally and truly returned from the war. He was once again the same person who had woken up in the village of the Valley of Streams, in Robin’s house. He played as if the granddaughter of the old hunter was standing in front of him. She was clapping and dancing while Hadjar kept smiling.
He hadn’t smiled like that for a very long time.
He knewhe could draw his sword again. There was only one difference —he’d remembered why he had done so previously.
When Rowena, accompanied by a detachment of the Generals’ warriors, had entered the tavern, she’d been prepared for almost anything: from hundreds of other soldiers of the Moon Army, ready to rebel, to a bunch of retired warriors who were too drunk to stand. She’d even halfway expected a mythical beast. But what she saw instead defied all logic and even the laws of the Heavens and Earth.
The tavern was in a frenzy. The people were shouting, laughing, and dancing with bowls full of ale in their hands. They hugged each
