Nero’s blade made the tiles on the roofs of the neighboring houses shake; wide cracks appeared in the oak walls of the tavern. The giant sword stopped ten inches above the floor. The fragments of the crushed stones soared through the air. A wave of energy cut the floor and tore out stones, scattering them in different directions. A tsunami of destructive force followed the thin and invisible stripe. The people saw a tiger in the wave. The beast’s roar shook the walls of the houses. Its paws came down so heavily they tore up the street below it.
The tiger’s and the dragon’s roars merged together. They passed through the misty scorpion with ease. The aristocrats’ assassins had no way of escaping or dodging the attack. Using the last remnants of their strength and energy, they tried to defend themselves, forming a barrier in front of them. There was an explosion.
When the wind calmed down and the dust settled, only bloodstains and small bits of flesh were left behind on the pavement. Along with a deep crater in the middle of the street. Horrified, the spectators turned to look at the two swordsmen, but they were no longer near the tavern.
Many mercenaries got drunk that day. Some of them decided to abandon their profession. Others, on the contrary, were filled with determination to advance further along the path of endless self-improvement. Regardless of what they chose, they never again witnessed two swordsmen erase four practitioners at the cusp of becoming true cultivators. It was an unheard of event. Even by the standards of the outer rim of the Empire.
After this event, whenever someone mentioned the ‘Mad General’ or ‘Commander Nero’, the bards would be inspired. Soon, the city was full of new songs about the exploits of their favorite folk heroes. And yet, neither of these heroes would hear them.
They sat by the lake in the royal garden and smoked their pipes.
“I’ve missed this,” Nero said.
“Yep,” Hadjar nodded, exhaling a little ring of smoke. “Me too.”
A wind was blowing. Black and white swans were swimming on the surface of the lake. According to Elaine, they had names. Hadjar couldn’t remember them.
“Do you ever think about the future, Hadj?” Nero asked suddenly.
Setting aside his pipe, the Prince lounged on the grass and put his hands underneath his head. His huge sword, covered with numerous scratches, lay nearby. It wasn’t as elegant and polished as the aristocrats’ own blades — it was clear that this weapon, like its owner, had seen many battles.
“The future? What do you mean?”
Nero smiled. “You haven’t thought about it either,” he nodded. “I’m getting married tomorrow, buddy. What will happen the day after tomorrow? Or a year later. What about ten years later, when both Serra and I get tired of this gilded cage?”
Hadjar looked eastward. The Sea of Sand. Behind its dunes, nomadic tribes, dangerous creatures, and storms, were the lands of the Empire. How many of the cultivators there could take Hadjar’s life faster than he’d dealt with the assassins sent by the nobles? What knowledge and mysteries did the libraries of the Empire hold? What could the Masters and Scholars whose lives stretched back hundreds of centuries teach him? What awaited him if he kept going? What was beyond the Empire? Perhaps he could even uncover the secrets of the dragon’s Shadow there. These possible adventures appealed to Hadjar. The wind whispered to him about the distant horizon. It was just waiting for the General to finally set off on the journey.
“Would you want to go on a trip together?” Nero asked carefully, as if afraid of scaring his friend.
Hadjar didn’t have time to answer. The air suddenly smelled like hot sand and became noticeably warmer. Serra sat down between them.
“I seem to recall that seeing one’s bride before the wedding is a bad omen,” Hadjar said.
“We have our own omens in the Sea of Sand,” the witch replied.
They sat there together and watched the moon.
“When are we leaving?”
Nero and Hadjar exchanged glances.
“Don’t even try it,” Serra shook her thick, black hair. It smelled like the road. It was a nice smell. “I wouldn’t have fallen in love with you, Nero, if you’d been an ordinary prince. Moreover, I wouldn’t have become your friend, Hadjar, if you’d been an ordinary general. I am also interested in exploring what’s out there, beyond the horizon.”
The trio looked at each other and smiled.
They discussed their future journey until dawn, when Elaine came to get Serra. Only Hadjar knew that these were little more than simple, youthful dreams. Tomorrow, his plan would reach its final phase and rivers of blood would soon flow through Lidus. Not for justice or the common good, but for banal revenge.
The revenge of Hadjar Traves, not Hadjar Duran.
The story of the Prince and the General had come to an end.
Chapter 229
Hadjar stood in front of the mirror, trying to adjust his tailcoat. This kind of clothing didn’t look good on him. That’s why, to avoid torturing himself and others, Hadjar preferred to wear plain, spacious clothes. They didn’t hamper his movements and didn’t require arcane magic to sit right on his frame. Alas, he had to wear it for his friend’s wedding. Fortunately, the bride had provided the outfit.
“Stop nibbling me!” Hadjar shook his foot slightly.
Hissing, Azrea bounced off to the side and continued trying to tear off a turquoise ribbon. Hadjar had warned both Serra and Elaine that it was useless to try and dress up the little tigress, but they hadn’t wanted to listen.
Two little girls had seemingly possessed these strong practitioners. They’d spent the entire evening playing with the kitten. At Hadjar’s request, Azrea had tolerated them. Nobody, not even the General, knew how the kitten could understand requests, but she’d endured being squeezed and played with.
