Hadjar jerked toward Guy, but when he sensed that the axeman was still alive, he stopped his impulsive charge. The kick, even if it had been delivered with a steel boot and been quite strong overall, hadn’t sent Guy to his forefathers.

In front of him, near the stone that seemed to be leaking liquid amber, stood one of the hosts of a tiny bit of the Black General’s soul — a tall blond man with a sword that was very similar to his Blue Blade.

This made sense, as almost all of the fanatics, as far as Hadjar knew, were swordsmen. Many of them preferred such classic, straight swords that were designed more for elaborate swordplay than for instant killing. Many considered such swords to be nothing more than ceremonial ornaments, forgetting that the greatest swordsman of all time had used just such a blade.

“I had a feeling that you would come, my misguided brother.”

The sectarian waved his hand and the mercenaries, including Glets, moved away. All of them were wearing similar sets of leather armor. Illuminated by the light of the flickering flame of their evening bonfire, metal plates decorated with a skillful engraving of a soaring raven glittered on their chests. It was unlikely that an organization like the Raven Sect could properly function by only relying on their core forces, so that made sense. They had enough funds to maintain a small private army. Well, that made the Demon Prince’s task a little more complicated. Moreover, Hadjar still couldn’t comprehend the motives of the demon.

“The Parade is very close, my misguided brother,” the sectarian continued. “Soon, all the feathers scattered around the world will return to the nest.”

Did Hadjar have to deal with failed poets all the time now? Or were the cultivators who had reached certain heights simply unable to speak in anything but metaphors? Would he become one of them?

The blond man stepped over Guy and eloquently placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. He had the power of a peak-stage Nameless. His body was as strong as an Imperial level artifact. Hadjar sensed mysteries emanating from his sword that were similar to those emanating from the Black General’s Technique. They were all fools who naively used borrowed power without understanding what this would ultimately lead to.

“You need this, don’t you?” Hadjar held out his hand, revealing the bottle that held the terrible mixture.

Outwardly, the blond remained calm, but his gaze hardened a little.

“I suppose it would be silly to ask where Alf is right now?”

Hadjar said nothing.

The sectarian smiled, “I’ve heard stories about you, Hadjar Darkhan, Mad General.” Demonstrating his power and confidence, the sectarian turned his back to Hadjar and stared at the stone. “Raven’s Wing managed to bring back news about you. He described you as a man who was guided by honor. Was there honor in killing a captive merchant?”

Hadjar could’ve said that this merchant had probably done a lot to get such an elixir, possibly even acquiring some of the ingredients with his own two hands, but he didn’t bother. He’d learned the lesson of Chin’Ameh and his accursed manipulation Technique: sometimes, a warrior walking the path of honor must be guided by necessity. All too often, honor and justice had different faces. The fate that had befallen Alf was not full of honor, but it had been fair and had come to him by traveling along the path laid down by the merchant himself.

“You’ve got a strong heart,” the blond man ran his hand over the stone. “You aren’t confused by such simple speeches anymore, are you?”

“You know my name, fanatic, but I don’t know yours.”

“Fanatic? Are we really fanatics, my misguided brother? We only saw what our glorious ancestor wanted to show us. We heard his voice. So, we aren’t fanatics. Fanatics are those who refuse to see what the first Darkhan revealed to us. What he paid the highest price to show us.”

Hadjar stayed silent again. He couldn’t see it, but he could somehow sense that the man was smiling.

“You don’t know the whole story, do you?” He asked. “You don’t know why, even after the Black General won freedom for him and his people in the first war, he went into battle once again? Why he decided to destroy what he’d once defended?”

“What do you mean?”

The blond man laughed loudly enough to miss the noise of Alba-udun carefully walking around the edge of the forest on the other side.

“The time will come and you’ll find out, my misguided brother... if you live long enough, of course,” the sectarian continued, wiping away his tears. “I, Kafem Boniysky, won’t offer you a chance to join our ranks. Too many loyal brothers and sisters have already fallen victim to your blade. Their souls cry out for revenge.”

Kafem turned around and, untying his scabbard from his belt, without drawing the blade within, pointed it at Hadjar. There was no greater insult for a warrior than to receive a challenge with an unsheathed sword. It was worse than a slap to the face or even having someone spit in it. But Hadjar wasn’t young or silly enough to throw himself like a frenzied dog at a rag being waved in front of his face.

“You kill each other endlessly and yet-”

“Don’t compare us to yourself, Mad General!” Kafem interrupted him sharply. “We don’t kill each other! We fight for the glory of our Ancestor! With each new round of battle, our souls grow stronger and we grow stronger! Only the truly strong will be able to walk the path of the Black General and finish his business!”

“Call it what you want, Kafem,” Hadjar shrugged. “To me, you’re just a handful of fanatics clutching at the shards of an illusion. Do you need this potion? Then catch!”

Before Hadjar threw the bottle into the air, as was their their plan, Kafem smiled broadly for the third time and shook his head.

He even clicked his tongue before speaking, “You’re still very young, Mad General, and the Strange Lands are older than any other region. If you keep being so blind and naive, they’ll devour you.”

He gave a command.

The ranks of the mercenaries shifted and the tied up squad members fell to the ground, bathed in the light of the fire. Gustaf had a black eye, Itia had a split lip, Abraham’s straw hat had turned into something obscene, and Alba-udun had a broken blade protruding from his left shoulder.

“This plan just keeps failing, doesn’t it?” Abraham spat out some blood. A blow to his stomach silenced the smuggler.

“So, Hadjar Darkhan, do you know why this stone is called the Stone of the Suffering God?” Kafem’s gray eyes flashed with something cruel and ruthless. “According to the legend, the wife of an old god was kidnapped and he shed bitter tears of despair and suffering until he turned into stone. And since then, these tears have embodied weakness and despair within them. They produce a wonderful, truly volatile poison, which you were all poisoned with a few hours ago.”

“The legend I heard is a little different,” Hadjar sighed. “It wasn’t a god who shed tears there, but the Potter, and it happened not far from the Fiery Mountains in the Dark Forest, but... I don’t care.”

Hadjar clenched and unclenched his fist. He felt neither tired nor weak. Perhaps the poison somehow affected one’s will, but the fact that he had been living with Chin’Ameh’s evil Technique in his heart for several decades had granted him something like immunity to such things.

“We seem to have a stalemate here, Kafem.” His will and mysteries swirled around Hadjar’s palm. “If you hurt my friends, I’ll destroy the bottle, and then send all of you to your forefathers.”

“Them,” the sectarian pointed at the mercenaries, “You probably will. But you don’t have enough power to handle me, boy.”

“We can check that right now.” Hadjar drew the Blue Blade and a bird’s cry echoed out. “If you defeat me, I’ll give you the bottle. If I defeat you, you’ll tell me where your castle is and how to get there.”

Kafem’s response was his will, mysteries, and energy flaring up around him. The sectarian rushed forward.

Well, Hadjar had wanted to find out how much his power had grown, and a live opponent was much better suited for that sort of test than any sticks could ever be.