Dragon's Heart. Stone Will.
Description.
He was born anew in a world where martial arts were indistinguishable from magic.
He only received a neuronet and meaningless desires from his past life.
What lies ahead?
He dreamed of adventure and freedom, but those dreams were taken away from him.
The same way his mother, father, and sister had been taken away.
They took the Kingdom, they took his own destiny.
But he was willing to start a war, against the whole world if need be, to bring everything back.
Even if the army opposed him, his sword would not waver.
Even if the Emperor sent the legions, his step would not falter.
Even if demons and gods, heroes and enemies alike were to unite against him, he would not bend to their will. His own will was iron itself, unstoppable.
His name was Hadjar and he heeded the call of the dragon heart within him.
Novel contains noncensured scenes of battles, that may or may not include scenes of violence. Open it on your own risk.
Prologue
Blue eyes peered at two yellow stars.
Instead of pupils, he had sharp spindles.
A man and a dragon looked at each other.
The creature, which had been alive for millions of years, had spent its most recent ones in a tomb. Unable to move its tail or claws, it gazed into the infinite emptiness of its soul.
The man had lived but one life in the dungeon of his own body, and then continued to exist in the same dungeon during his second one.
The amazing dragon, whose beauty had been praised in a thousand and one songs... The legendary conqueror of heaven and the Lord of Starlight had been cast down like a simple mortal.
The young man was disgusting to behold. His hands twisted at unnatural angles. He also had skin covered in scabs, a scarred face, an almost white, bald scalp and purulent blisters. Instead of legs— mere wooden stumps.
He’d been one of the most brilliant masters of his time, who’d reached the pinnacle of the martial arts practiced in his country.
The once-talented prince was now trapped in a body that was incapable of even running, not to mention practicing the art.
In a dark cave, amidst ancient chains, sealed away with energy so dense that it could even be felt, touched, they lay in front of each other.
A bug, and a monster the size of a mountain.
Whether Fate, Chance or Ridiculous Coincidence had brought them together—nobody knew.
The dragon was so bored, he wanted to devour this disgusting mortal, but suddenly noticed the look in his eyes. Those intense, azure eyes. Despite everything that had happened, there was no despair to be found in that gaze, no regret, no fear.
Only the body was rotten, the gaze had remained clear and ferocious. So ferocious that if it were to be manifested, it could split the heavens and bring them down, to the ground itself.
“What is your name, little bug?”
“Hadjar Duran. And what’s your name, scaly face?”
The dragon was about to dissolve the insolent whelp with a thought, but then he suddenly laughed, and his laughter made the thousand-year-old chains shake and the stones of the dungeon crack.
“My name is Traves.”
They looked at each other. One a prisoner of the impregnable dungeon, one the prisoner of his own body and fate.
Traves knew that, even without being chained down, no mortal could escape this place. What puzzled him was how the ant had managed to end up in here.
This ‘Hadjar’ couldn’t help him, couldn’t tell the world that the Great Traves was still alive. Now they were locked in here together. Forever, or until the mortal died of starvation.
And so, Traves’ revenge would never come to pass.
Hadjar didn’t understand how lucky he’d been—he hadn’t drowned in the underwater current, the endless rapids hadn’t broken his head open, he hadn’t drowned in the waterfall nor broken his body going down it, nor had he been shot by the archers. How had he managed to escape from the city on his improvised, artificial limbs?!
And yet, after only one glance at the whirlpool that had spat him out into this underwater grotto, it became clear that he would die of starvation here.
And so, Hadjar Duran’s revenge would never come to pass, either.
The dragon looked at the bug’s fierce gaze. He didn’t flinch, didn’t let go of his rage, even after realizing that it was all completely hopeless.
“I’ve lived a long life, Hadjar Duran. I’ve seen empires built. I’ve seen eternal cities collapse. I’ve fought with geniuses and defeated immortals. I’ve created techniques so complex that many adepts are still, to this day, racking their brains over them. And yet, Hadjar Duran, I remain only a small spark in the world of martial arts.
‘A small spark’? Hadjar hummed mentally and invoked one of the few functions that his neuronet was still capable of.
Name: Traves
Level: ????????????????
Strength: ????????????????
Dexterity: ????????????????
Physique: ????????????????
Energy points: ????????????????
If ‘a small spark’ looked like that, then what had the hell of all the adepts he had previously met been? What was he, for that matter? A microbe? Mere dust? A recollection?
“I have lived two lives,” if Duran had had the strength for it, he would have given the dragon a smug grin. “And so, I’m cooler than you.”
All he had left now were stupid jokes and bravado. Well, to be honest, that was all he’d ever had, in principle. Jokes, bravado and an indomitable will.
“Hadjar Duran, will you make a deal with me? One which, most likely, will lead to you dying in such agony that children, listening to stories about you, will pass out from fear?”
“You would make a ‘deal’ with me? Even idiots would laugh at you, if you were to do so.”
The dragon laughed. Today was a good day for him to die, and to begin exacting his revenge. Finally…
“Move under my claw, bug.”
Hadjar didn’t argue. If it had wanted to do so, this creature would’ve already split him in half. And so, Duran, gritting his teeth, crawled over. The scabs and blisters, irritated by the stone floor, caused him unbearable suffering.
But he still crawled.
The steel claw was the size of a windmill and resembled a guillotine.
Undaunted, he crawled. Toward his death. Toward his revenge.
The ten yards became his own personal green mile.
Traves lifted the claw with visible effort. Not very high, just a little (for the dragon’s size), but enough that the little bug could crawl under it.
“Are you ready, Hadjar Duran?”
“Come on, you bastard. Do whatever you need to…”
And then the cave was flooded with the man’s cries of anguish and the dragon’s roars.
[Urgent message for the user! Unauthorized changes to the owner’s body detected! One of the vital organs has been replaced!]
The old heart of Hadjar, who had endured so much pain and despair, was sinking into a whirlpool. The dragon's heart was now beating in his own chest. It had been created by Traves, using a drop of his blood and all the willpower that he’d been able to find in himself.
The dragon died, and the man was reborn.
The age-old chains were crumbling, the ancient prison was collapsing, and the streams of water enveloping the body that was writhing in agony were carrying it towards the sunlight flickering above the surface.
The question remains, how had the man with the neuronet found himself in front of the dragon and how did he get his heart?
Chapter 1
He was never a lucky man. Many stories begin like this, and this one is no exception. He was born on Friday the 13th. That day, sheets of rain poured down, accompanied by hale. Only this fact hinted that his destiny wouldn’t be an ordinary one.
His mother apparently thought the same.
Typical gutter trash, she became pregnant with a street tough’s baby. They abandoned him on the threshold of a local hospital. They didn’t put him down on it, but instead threw him away, out of the car window, as they drove by. They’d been afraid of being noticed, or something like that. No wonder he was bedridden literally from birth, able to move only his right hand.
He probably shouldn't have lived long with a broken backbone and craniocerebral injuries. But he decided to disregard that. He chose to live. He was housed in a special orphanage. He lived there until he was twelve. Always alone, cooped up in a small room. Sometimes, the other wards of the orphanage toyed with him.
They thought they were good at making fun of him. They were amused by how he couldn't talk, and could just move the only hand weirdly when they played their cruel games.
Needless to say, he never won one of those games.
Except for the children, a nurse came to him twice a day. She washed him, cleaned, changed his clothes, and often cursed. She complained about her life and the fact that she had to take care of a ‘vegetable’. Sometimes, when she was in a foul mood, she used to beat him.
But he was still determined to survive.
In spite of it all, in spite of all of them.
When he was twelve, his life became much better. The delegation of a well-known magnate came to the orphanage. He immediately decided to use the “vegetable” for his own purposes. He placed him in the best hospital, the ward of which exceeded the size of many apartments. He visited him once a month or so, with the press in tow, bringing gifts and probably avoiding taxes very successfully.
So, his life changed.
He was fed delicious meals, smiling psychologists talked to him and other patients often visited him. Some of them were terminally ill, others had recently lost someone. He was able to listen well, although he wasn’t able to speak.
Nevertheless, music remained his only friend. He listened to it all the time. When he ate, when he read, even while someone was confiding in him yet again.
When he was sixteen, a hi-tech laptop with special software was given to him. Now he could communicate. He would type, and the laptop would talk for him. The visitors began to come less often. Only the tired but smiling orderlies remained.
Then he started writing. Not books. He wrote music. Of course, the magnate did everything possible in order for the paralyzed musician to become a star.
When he was eighteen, a hundred thousand people would download his music every day. He didn’t need the money, and the magnate was all too happy to dispose of it. He said he was using it for charity. But that was unlikely.
Everything changed that fateful day. He was lying in bed, without feeling himself doing so. He turned his own head toward the window with his right hand. The city lights glittered at the foot of the hill in the distance.
“Aren’t you sleeping?” The voice sounded like it was very close.
He turned his head back around. New visitors would always shudder upon seeing that, but not this man. He was forty or maybe older, with a strong chin and clear, bright eyes.
“Who are you?” A mechanical voice asked. “Who let you to come in?”
He hated when somebody came in without knocking. It made him feel even more helpless.
“Oh, don't worry, I work here,” the man sat down on the edge of the huge bed. This irritated him even more. “I'm from the seventh floor.”
“The Department of Neurosurgery?”
”And bio-engineering.”
The people working there were called ‘Frankensteins’. He wondered what one of those scientists wanted from a simple cripple, just a little bit more famous than the others.
“I’m a chief physician too,” the snow-white smile didn’t appeal to him either. ”Dr. Paul Kowal.”
Paul held out his hand. He shook it.
"A strong handshake," the doctor muttered, rubbing his palm slightly.
He smiled inwardly. When you do everything, absolutely everything, with just one hand, it becomes much stronger than other people’s hands. The same as blind people who have particularly sensitive hearing.
“Please, get to the point,” the mechanical voice said. “I'm not a big fan of... small talk.”
He should’ve said that he wasn't a big fan of people either. A troubled childhood and stuff like that.
“I’m glad to hear it.” The man’s blindingly white smile could compete even with the whiteness of the walls. “I have an offer for you”.
“Sorry, I haven't thought about marriage yet. Plus, you're not my type.”
Stupid jokes had always been his defense mechanism. They pushed people away better than anything else. No one liked it when someone made a silly and clumsy joke. However, the doctor just laughed.
He wanted Paul to leave the room as soon as possible. He had to finish a set in time for his new release.
“What do you know about neural networks?” Mr. Koval asked him.
“Just what’s written in fiction,” the special emoticon shrugged on the screen. “It's a kind of neural interface.”
“Only partially,” the doctor nodded. “It's more like an extra nervous system.”
The emoticon raised its eyebrows on the screen.
“Do you think…”
“That if the surgery is successful, you might be able to walk and talk? Not immediately, you'll have to go through a long and painful rehabilitation. It may take a few years, but…”
“I agree.”
“But…”
“I agree!” the metallic voice shouted.
Mr Koval looked into the bottomless, determined eyes of a man who hadn't even been able to turn his head. And there wasn't a hint of hesitation in his eyes.
“Then, as soon as we‘re done with all the bureaucracy, we can proceed.”
The long and very crowded days he spent waiting felt like an eternity. Various specialists visited him. They covered his head with different sensors and did specific tests, or checked some obscure parameters.
So many tests were done on him that astronauts would have probably sympathized with him. It was absurd they’d taken a piece of his nail. And they’d sent in a special person with laser scissors to do it. This, perhaps, had been the only entertaining event.
Various psychologists also came to talk to him. There were even more of them than the ordinary doctors. They, as always, asked absolutely stupid questions, and each time, he graced them with the same smiling emoticon face. When he really got tired of them, he began to tell inappropriate jokes.
It seemed that he’d even managed to offend one of the graduate students. She’d asked him what he wanted to get out of the neural network in the immediate future. He answered her almost honestly. He wished to have the opportunity to invite her to dinner and then get her laid.
She had, probably, wanted to say something unpleasant in reply, but she stopped herself from doing so and just walked away in silence.
He laughed for a long time. It was funny that the psychologist hadn't understood that he, someone who’d never felt anything but his hand, had never experienced sexual attraction, even a mental one. He didn't know what it was.
Then the journalists came to interview him. They interrogated him for a long time, under the greedy supervision of the magnate. He was surely the sponsor of this operation, and had already calculated his future profits. He must’ve been thanking his lucky stars that he’d decided to take the disabled orphan under his wing.
Finally, he was dressed in a special robe, some muck was injected into his veins and he was sent down a long corridor. He was slowly losing consciousness, disappearing into a deep, viscous lake in his mind. For the first time in his life, he wasn't trying to resist that feeling. On the contrary, he opened his arms to embrace the deep. The last thing he saw was the worried face of the young nurse.
He was dreaming.
He was flying over the vast expanse of a smooth, green sea. Well, he’d thought it was smooth at first, and then, looking closer, he saw the huge mountains propping up the sky that were in the sea. The beautiful cities were so big that they could’ve fit the entire territory of some countries within them.
Strange animals were soaring in the sky.
They looked like dragons.
The green sea turned out to be the endless forests, valleys and meadows. The blue veins were the broad rivers that looked more like elongated oceans. And the seas were the size of a starry sky.
The wind was blowing.
It was a pleasant wind, a wind that promised to grant him his only wish—to be free.
What a stupid dream it was, but so enjoyable.
His old friend, pain, brought him back to reality. He knew it better than he did most people. He was burning up and his body was contorting. A scorching hot metal rod was being attached to his nerves, and molten iron was being poured into every cell of his body.
“The pressure’s increasing!”
“The neural activity is spiking.”
“His pulse is at 250 BPM!”
“We're losing him!”
He heard all these voices as if from far away. There was also a distant, muffled and almost inaudible cry. That’s how he first heard his own voice. Among the blurry individuals, the unclear outlines of the variety of instruments and mirrors in which his split open head was being reflected, he saw the information window.
He’d used to see those windows on the screen of his laptop.
[The network is activated. Version 0.17.6. Condition is critical!]
“He’s going into cardiac arrest!”
Everything had faded. There was only one sense left to him, which made him laugh. Someone must’ve opened the door to the operating room and the wind was blowing in, reaching his heels.
He hadn't known something could be so funny.
Chapter 2
He wasn't one of those people who were interested in death. He didn't care about what came after one’s path ended. He was simply too busy fighting for that very life, every day.
And so, he’d expected neither a harem of virgins, nor an eternal feast among soldiers, neither Seraphim nor the Golden Gate. Instead, there was only darkness.
It was warm and tender.
He was fine with it.
He didn't want to leave it. For the first time in his life, he felt neither anxiety nor unease. That's why he’d been so unhappy when the bright light appeared at the end of the narrowing tunnel.
He didn't want to leave this intimate darkness. But it forced him out, pushing him closer to the scorching circle of the white flame.
Finally, the light flooded everything around him, and then pouring down inside him as well. He felt a burning sensation in his chest. He shouted. Not from the pain, he knew how to endure that. He’d done it just to make sure he was truly alive. But instead of screaming, all he heard was a nasty squeak.
“Dat har herieon.”
He heard an unfamiliar, gruff language. He opened his eyes with great difficulty and saw... An incomprehensible, blurry, clearly inverted, black-and-white spot. Out of habit, he reached out his hand toward the keyboard to type “What the hell”. But instead of the keyboard, he ended up squeezing something soft. At first, he thought it was someone's hand, but, looking at it closer, he recognized... a finger.
How huge that finger must’ve been, if he’d held it with his whole palm!
Wait... Wait a minute...
[Reconfiguring the interface. Correcting the original error. The host’s age is 35 seconds.]
What?!
Suddenly, the black-and-white image was filled with color and returned to normal, changing the perspective back as well. Finally, he saw the face… of a woman. Or even a young girl. She was about twenty. Certainly not any older. Her lustrous, black hair, which was in a thick braid, lay on her narrow, elegant shoulder. Her clear, green eyes glowed with happiness.
Her round, tired, sweat-covered face was perhaps the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He didn’t see the environment—not the huge stone chamber, decorated with velvet and gold; not the painted walls: nor the girls in light leather armor who were standing around them. He looked only into the depth of her shiny eyes.
She stroked his cheek gently and said, “Dlahi Hadjar. Dlahi Hadjar.”
***
“Look, Nanny,” Elizabeth smiled.
She stroked the crying baby’s cheek. She wasn’t alone on the damp sheets now, rocking her newborn son in her arms. The nanny bustled around her. She gave orders to the women and they immediately ran into the depths of the palace corridors.
“My dear Hadjar,” the queen lulled the little prince to sleep. “Dear Hadjar.”
A kind smile was on her tired face.
“My Queen,” the plump, kind Nanny came up to her. “Look how tightly he is holding onto you.”
Elizabeth only then noticed that Hadjar had been squeezing her finger tightly. In his clear, blue eyes, she suddenly saw the reflection of something that the baby should not have been able to feel.
It was confusion.
“A son?!” Suddenly, there was an almost bestial roar.
In the corridor, she heard the tramping of a dozen feet. The gigantic doors opened wide and a tall, broad-shouldered man flew into the hall. Wearing golden, comfortable clothes, with a sash at his belt, he was an impressive man, and he was also taller than his warriors by two heads.
He had light brown, shoulder-length hair and a leather strap with metal inserts covered his forehead.
“My King,” the nurse immediately bowed low.
The armored girls, who had returned to the chamber, did the same.
“Darling,” Elizabeth’s smile became even brighter than it had been before.
“I have a son, brother!” The King grabbed the man standing next to him by the shoulders.
He looked like the King, but was even taller and a little older. His black beard had some gray in it. A golden medallion was fastened to his heavy fur cloak.
“Congratulations, brother,” the man answered in a deep baritone voice.
The King shook him a little and almost jumped onto the bed. He embraced his wife and touched his firstborn gently, a little wary of harming him. The baby was warm.
“Why isn't he crying?” The King asked worriedly. “Call the doctor! Quickly!”
“Calm down, Haver,” the Queen laughed, and her gaze stopped the knights. “He’s cried. He’s just... stopped now.”
“Stopped crying?” Haver was surprised. “Is that at all normal?”
This time, the question was addressed to the nurse that had straightened up.
“No, Your Majesty. You cried for almost four hours after your birth.”
Haver wanted to scold the grumpy old woman, but he remembered that his newborn son was next to him, just in time to stop himself. Could he hear him?
“Don't worry, brother,” the tall man came closer. “Look at how tightly he’s holding Elizabeth’s finger and how hard his eyes are.”
The King turned back to his son, and for the first time, a feeling of pride flared up in his chest. He held out his own finger, and the baby grabbed it with his other hand. Tightly. Very tightly.
“The gods know,” the smiling King whispered, “He will be a great general and...”
“A scholar, dear,” Elizabeth interrupted him. “We agreed that if a boy was born, he would become a scholar.”
“But, my love, look at him! He weighs as much as a young ScaryWolf!”
Elizabeth's look hardened. The warriors tensed up.
The King frowned.
“What is going on here?!” The Nanny suddenly shouted. “You can argue later! The child needs a rest now.”
After saying that, she went to the Prince and wrapped him in a gold-covered veil, then carried him to a small comforter.
The Queen fell back onto the pillows with a sigh of relief. Breathing heavily, she stroked her husband's arm. Despite their quarrels, which were legendary throughout the whole country, she loved Haver with all her heart. And he loved her in return.
“Congratulations, brother,” the man bowed. “But, my Queen, I beg that you forgive us, we need to attend the military council.”
“Just a couple of minutes, Primus,” the weakened Elizabeth whispered. “Let me spend a bit more time with my husband.”
The King's brother bowed once more, and then went out into the corridor, donning his cloak. He was followed by all the soldiers. Both the knights and bodyguards of the queen. Finally, the new mother and father were left alone. The royal couple had precious few moments they could just spend with each other, basking in their love and devotion to each other.
The governing of the country demanded their full attention. It often happened that they couldn’t see each other for several weeks at a time. It was a great mystery how they’d managed to conceive a child in such conditions. But taking into account the timing, it had most likely happened during the feast in honor of the Harvest Festival.
Haver sat down next to his wife and she lowered her head to his mighty, scarred chest.
“Stay with me this time, darling,” she whispered
“The war’s starting, dear,” the King stroked his wife's hair. Silky and thick, it smelled like jasmine. Untouched by any gray, the same as the day they’d met, almost 70 years ago.
”This one will end, another will begin, and so on, endlessly. Wars never stop.”
Elizabeth put her hand gently on the scars. There were more and more of them marring the body of her lover each time they met.
“I was born a King and warrior, this is my fate.”
“That is why I want our son to become a scholar,” the Queen’s voice trembled. “Let’s not allow the martial arts world to touch him.”
“Will he live a mortal life, then?” The King sighed. " In forty years, his hair will turn gray, in sixty— his teeth will fall out, and in ninety years, if he lives, he won’t even be able to remember your name. And you'll still be young and beautiful.”
The Queen had celebrated her 90th birthday last month, but she didn't look a day over twenty. The King had ruled the country for almost three centuries. By the standards of the adepts, they were still young. And compared to those who’d reached the level of Heaven Soldier and had touched the edge of eternity and immortality, they weren’t that different from their newborn son.
“But it will be a full life,” Elizabeth whispered, falling asleep. ”He will have no hardships, no troubles. He will marry, have children, and live happily, like all the mortals. He won’t know the horrors of this world. About needing to fight for a place in the sun. About the enmity of the practitioners of the Art. He will never be drawn into the endless conflict of the strong sects. He won’t be taken away from us by the Academy of Martial Arts, where he will forget all about the joys of life. He won’t be, like many others are, obsessed with his cultivation. He will live a good, peaceful, happy life. You can make our next son a warrior."
“We can't hide him forever...”
“But we can do it until he’s old enough.”
Elizabeth ran a hand over his scarred, powerful chest once again and finally fell asleep.
Haver sat next to his beloved wife for a short time, and only after he was convinced that she’d fallen asleep did he get out of her embrace. He covered her with a blanket, closed the door and went out into the corridor. His elder brother, Primus, the First Warlord of the Kingdom, was already waiting for him.
“Does she still dream that he’ll be a scholar?”
They walked toward the small throne room, where the generals and senior officers had already gathered. A new war was coming, although, admittedly, Haver didn’t remember a time when one wasn’t being fought.
“I can understand her,” the King sighed and rubbed his numb neck. “Her whole family died when she was little.”
“Have you seen little Hadjar? He looks like a scholar about as much as a Heaven Tiger looks like a tame kitten.”
Haver smiled proudly and stopped near the window. He looked at his golden-domed capital, which stretched out for miles around. Almost thirty million people lived just in this city. Overall, more than two billion people lived in his kingdom, which occupied a large swathe of land.
The King shook his head—his kingdom, Lidus, was very small, almost imperceptible on a country map. Maybe that's why they had to fight so often.
Maybe Elizabeth was right, and Hadjar’s fate was to be a scholar.
At that exact moment, he didn't know how wrong his wife was or how right his brother was.
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Submitted December 19, 2018 at 06:32PM by KirDroi https://ift.tt/2ExAQ80
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