He wasn’t a barbarian, but was oddly eager to harm the enemy regime with such a trifle. Hadjar did his best to dismiss the memories of the carefree and exciting days he’d spent in the Palace, keeping in mind that this wasn’t his home anymore, at all. It was enemy territory, and he had to be ready to fight them off.
Going up to a huge mirror, Hadjar adjusted his shabby clothes and checked whether his sheath was firmly attached to his belt.
Gathering his courage, he turned the emerald door handle and went out into the long corridor. The silence immediately struck him. The sheer emptiness. The distant echoes of someone’s steps. If not for the ostentatious luxury, the pretentious, undisguised, tasteless wealth on display, one would’ve thought that the Palace was in a state of decline.
It was already dusk outside. In recent years, Hadjar had gotten used to only engaging in vigorous activity in the evening. During the daytime, as a general, he’d always had important and urgent matters to attend to. Now that he wasn’t so busy, Hadjar was devoting his free time to meditation.
The worst of the wounds inside his transforming core had already healed. However, there were still some small cracks and scratches on it that didn’t allow him to fully dive into the River of Energy. Right now, Hadjar couldn’t afford to continue his attempts at approaching the Sword Spirit.
He had a lot of hard work ahead of him.
“Yeah,” Hadjar sighed, massaging his neck.
Once again, he acutely felt the lack of the analytical capabilities of his neural network.
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With its help, he could’ve easily sped up the recovery process. Now he had to independently search for the best ways to meditate and absorb energy in such a way that it would cure him, and not just do more harm.
According to Hadjar’s rough calculations, he would be completely healed in a few months. The difference between these two states seemed to be insignificant and even imperceptible. However, the Mad General knew perfectly well that these details were crucial in a pitched battle. Sometimes, they could cost someone their life.
Before Hadjar realized what he was doing, he’d gone toward a familiar street, went down the stairs, and found himself facing inconspicuous, simple wooden doors. He didn’t know what he would see behind them, and so he threw them open resolutely, his curiosity urging him.
Chapter 199
A breeze caressed his face and then moved on to play with the birds and the grass.
Hadjar stood on the stairs leading to the parade ground. Long ago, it had been full of the nobles’ children sweating, screaming, and exercising. They would hit the training dummies over and over with their weapons, practice various stances, and receive punishment from the strict Master.
Now it was a wasteland. All it lacked were the tumbleweeds and gloomy music. Neither the disciples nor the Master were there anymore.
Hadjar went downstairs reluctantly. He took off his shoes and buried his toes in the sand which had heated up during the day. The surface was cooling down, but still burned his skin.
The former General walked across the parade ground, seeing the shadows of the past. He remembered how he’d crashed into the rack of swords. He’d understood their call and answered it, so they’d fallen like feathers, unable to hurt him. His mother had picked him up, clearly worried. He’d become the first disciple of the Master.
South Wind and the Master used to sit right here. They would play chess and teach Hadjar the wisdom he needed in life. Only now did Hadjar realize that they had loved him. Not as a son, but as a disciple, as the inheritor of their knowledge and skills.
Hadjar went over to the wall upon which he’d left the first marks he ever made with a blade. The blackened gouges still responded to his touch.
“It is forbidden to step on this sand without my permission.”
Hadjar turned around.
He would’ve loved to say that the Master looked the same as before. Unfortunately, time had taken its toll. Time and Primus’ regime.
Hadjar saw a withered old man leaning on a twisted stick. His simple, gray clothes dragged along the sand of the parade ground, and the wind ruffled his loose, white hair. The deep wrinkles on his face revealed just how much he’d been aged by what had happened. Only his eyes were still sharp, unyielding.
If Hadjar had been able to, he would’ve knelt down on the ground and buried his forehead in the sand before the Master. But he couldn’t.
All the General could do now was bow at the waist and say: “I beg your pardon, Honorable Master. I didn’t know about this rule. Once again, please, forgive my ignorance.”
Hadjar swallowed a thorny lump in his throat, straightened, turned around, and headed for the exit. Before he managed to take two steps, the stick struck him between the shoulder blades.
“Ignorance of the law isn’t an excuse, young man.”
The wind was blowing. The stars were shining. Hadjar stood still.
The Master took a step forward, but his stick pierced only emptiness. Hadjar had already moved behind him. The Master had once been an unattainable ideal of skill for him, but now... Now he was only a person whom the former General respected greatly.
Despite his weakness and old age, the Master was quick. He turned and the wind followed him. The stick blurred, but it couldn’t even touch Hadjar’s clothes.
Hadjar grabbed an old, cracked wooden sword, blocked the old man’s lunge, slipped like a morning mist behind the Master, and touched his side with the blade.
At the same time, the old man whirled, swung his stick, and launched a miniature fire falcon from it. Hadjar had admired it once, despite the humorous ‘Fried Sparrow’ nickname he’d given it.
Hadjar whirled around too. The
