CHAPTER 124

  THE LAND OF RELIGION

  By the time they reached the outer border of Indu, the roads were choking with life.

  Merchants from every corner of the continent shouted over one another in dialects both familiar and foreign. Massive wagons groaned under crates of enchanted weapons, rare alchemical goods, beast hide armour, and artefacts pulled from forgotten tombs.

  Coins clinked like rainfall. They even set up shops before the gates. Smoke from charmed forges mingled with the spiced aroma of fried food, cheap incense, and perfumes meant to mask the stench of travel and ambition.

  This was not just a city preparing for some duels. It was a kingdom wrapped in gold, sharpened on all edges.

  Hans adjusted the black leather strap of his makeshift armour. His cloak, dark and unmarked, fluttered as a gust of warm wind swept up from the bustle. Aura pulsed gently beneath his skin, held in check by pain. His sword — Reina’s — rested in a scabbard tied to his waist, and his Knapbinder, newly bound with runes from Aadya’s own hand, now could change appearance.

  And yet, nothing felt annoying than the whisper that followed him:

  “That’s him. The target.”

  “Theodred... The Sad Death issued a worldwide challenge. Well, he wants to kill him before everyone.”

  “And he still came. Is he an idiot?”

  “Parv is blatantly killing prodigies of other nations.”

  “How far are they have fallen.”

  Tsk, our image is plummeting.

  Hans shook his head and moved on.

  The main gates of Indu were grand enough to be compared with Clandor — towering slabs of moonstone and black-steel, but the carvings of old prayers and the twelve tenets of the Yudwin.

  Hans looked around, lines of hopefuls, contenders, merchants, and nobles snaked back for hours, all waiting for inspection.

  Man, this will take forever.

  Hans stepped into the line. He didn’t complain. Didn’t speak. He only watched as the twin gatekeepers, Paladin-Scribes of the Association, methodically examined entry tokens, reading aura signatures like fingerprints.

  Then it was his turn.

  The left scribe raised his head, eyes going distant as he scanned Theodred’s aura through the lattice spell.

  “An Elf this early!—Name,” he said, controlling his emotion.

  “Theodred.”

  That was all he gave.

  A pause. A flicker of magic in the scribe’s hand, then a deepening of his frown.

  “Grade sixty-two, a knight from Clandor,” he looked up. “You’re aware that you’ve been formally challenged to a death match by Sir Dijkstra, Tenth Rank, sanctioned by the Knight Association?”

  Hans’s jaw flexed, “So I did get registered? Who did for me? Reina?” He nodded once.

  “You intend to accept?”

  He stepped forward and placed his hand on the sigilstone. Let the magic read his intent.

  Yes.

  The runes flared.

  The scribe blinked once, surprised.

  “...He accepts,” the man muttered. His partner stepped back. The gate rumbled open.

  “Welcome to Indu. Try not to die too quickly.”

  Hans walked in without a word.

  The moment he stepped beyond the threshold, the noise of the city hit like a wave — not just sound, but energy. Cries of commerce, clashing steel in the distance, bursts of aura mid-duel, the thrum of territory being claimed and contested beneath the shining banners of Houses and Orders.

  This is on a whole other level than Glory wars.

  He was barely ten paces in when Aadya reappeared beside him — not stepping through, but simply there, her cloak trailing behind like smoke.

  “Could’ve used you for moral support back there,” Hans muttered.

  “You needed the drama?” she replied, examining a vendor stall stacked with glimmerfruit. She added, “the entrance test would’ve fried their divination wards if I walked through normally. You’re lucky I disappeared. Should I just go through that.” She turned her steps really moving back to the gates.

  Hans quickly stopped her, side-eyed. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

  “Oh, absolutely.” She grinned, but her eyes scanned the crowded plaza with subtle calculation. “The killing scent in this place is delicious. You feel it?” She asked. “Half of these knights are here for blood, not titles.”

  He did feel it.

  The collective tension of a thousand blades sheathed, and a thousand reputations waiting to rise and be broken. Yet another smell breached his nostrils.

  “You’re wearing perfume?” Hans turned to her.

  “It’s natural.” She responded, waving her hair, skipping through the crowd in a swaying gait that made armoured men step aside.

  “That’s new.” Hans didn’t know when she changed or how she changed her dress mid-way. Or how could she hop like a child without shame.

  White silk clung to her like a second skin, embroidered with swan symbols that marked Clandor. Her hair, now blond like any other elf. Her eyes, which had been ruby red, were now a sea blue like his.

  Yeah, you crazy god. Declare your presence. So much for discreet.

  Hans quickly followed before she could venture further. But he had a bad feeling, his one hand on the purse while another hovered over the sword hilt. Not because of danger—he could handle danger—but because every time she squealed with delight, it started to cost him another silver coin.

  And the goddess squealed often.

  “Ooh! Hans! Look! Look at this one—it sings!” She darted to a stall covered in tiny brass beasts. One of them—a sea lion with rubies for eyes—tiny in size—almost a palm. Belched smoke and growled when she touched it.

  “I don’t even like sea lions,” she said, already holding out her hand.

  “No,” Hans said, flatly. “You don’t want it.”

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Well, now I do. I want them.”

  “You liked the glass phoenix ten minutes ago. And the sugar skulls. And the scrying dice. And that hand-painted map of the Elven wars.”

  “I love maps,” she said sweetly. “Maps tell stories. Also, that one was humming.”

  Hans sighed and handed the brass-sea lion vendor three silver crowns, one copper short of being robbed blind. The vendor grinned like he’d won a duel.

  They moved on.

  The goddess spun like a drunken star, stopping for fire-breathers, sword-dancers, and tent-preachers yelling about eternal glory through sacrifice. She stuck her tongue out at them.

  Hans glanced sideways. “You know that man was talking about you, right? The goddess who came and stopped the civil war?”

  “Please. If I wanted glory, I’d just take my original look in public.”

  Hans winced. “Don’t say that so loudly. There’s a faction here that would pay for it.”

  She grinned, teeth too sharp for her face. “Then I’ll make you rich.”

  “You’re making me poor.”

  A moment of rare stillness passed. She slowed, her fingers brushing a line of velvet capes fluttering on a vendor’s rack. With them, her hand fluttered, turning transparent as if she were turning into a ghost.

  “Hmm… it feels like I have to return soon.” She murmured, unclear to Hans what she said.

  He looked at her, his eyes asking. But she shrugged off. “Nothing.” And moved on.

  Before the contenders came to Indu, their profiles did, and one of the streets where Hans came to arrange his quarters to stay for a while—The bets were ongoing.

  Christopher Hodges—a name he was familiar with— came from many lips.

  “It looks Chris is rather popular here.” He murmured. Literally dragging Aadya by her hand. “Come on, dear goddess. Let’s secure a place to breathe before the noise swallows us whole.”

  He walked with the collar of his coat turned up, shadow long in the afternoon sun. The Street of Contenders was less a road than a parade of nations pretending to smile at one another. Stone and cloth, blade and banner—the vanity of nations polished for show.

  The sigils came first, hanging in front of the buildings.

  To his left, stretched high on crimson silk, a plain insignia or a sword inside a ring—

  Concordia.

  “Not the Academy. The faction of Concordia. The Blood Monks.” He looked, really looked. “Hmm. It seems node master didn’t come.” He muttered. “Maybe she knew—about me. That’s why she acted like that.”

  Aadya leaned in, ears twitching. “What? Who knows what?”

  “Nothing.” Hans pushed her face gently aside saying, “Just mumbling about the messed-up setting I am.”

  Hans lingered a step longer than he should’ve.

  Indu was a religious nation, so there were bound to be priests. And finally, he saw them. They didn’t speak. They just stared at him and offered a prayer and moved on.

  He’d seen one, a high priest when he was a kid, cursing him and blaming him for the fall of Sierra.

  Shaking it off, he moved past the Blood monks.

  Then came the twin to that mark—same ring, same sword, but cleaner, untouched. No red, no malice in it: a flag of silver linen bearing the same image, gentler now.

  Concordia.

  “They came after all,” Hans said, his voice low, with a wry twist at the edges. “We still have time. I wonder how their apprenticeship is going on.” Hans could hardly call others friend, apart from Chris and Delimira, but he wanted to see some familiar faces now.

  Then, the unexpected collision of eyes—Rudolf and Sierra stepping out, froze him mid-stride as if caught by a silent snare.

  “You look familiar,” Rudolf said, his tone sharp but curious.

  “I do?” Hans was confused. This was the first time Rudolf had met him in this form. He exchanged a quick glance with Aadya. “Is something giving me away?”

  “Who knows?” Aadya chuckled, loud enough to rip through the quiet like a blade. “He’s here to fight for tenth rank. Theodred Atelier.”

  The street seemed to still, eyes drifting their way.

  Rudolf’s gaze sharpened, dissecting. “Sixteen, seventeen? Aura grade sixty-three. Impressive. Dijkstra is no moron—well, maybe he is, but a dangerous one. He’s out to kill. You understand that, right?”

  Well, it’s gramps alright. If he didn’t stop a growing bud from being nipped, he won’t be Rudolf Edenberg.

  Hans smiled, tight. “How do you know it’s not the other way around?”

  “Now I understand why you felt familiar.” Rudolf said with a sardonic grin. “Your cockiness that exudes before you even speak reminds me of my grandson. One day, he’ll get smacked hard on his head to learn humility.”

  Smack!!

  Hans rubbed the back of his head where Aadya’s palm landed like a gavel.

  “What was that for?” he muttered.

  “Elders’ wisdom,” Aadya said, eyes glancing away. “He said a smack on the head. Consider it official.”

  “Not me. You’re crazy nut—whatever.” Hans grumbled—then stiffened, almost cautiously, and jumped back, armed.

  “You. Are. Theodred.” Sierra’s voice was a hiss, sharp as a drawn blade.

  His breath hitched.

  Man, I forgot Granny is scary— my name would have rubbed her the wrong way. If she—even for a second— thinks—I’d endanger the real me—she’d off me without a second thought.

  Aadya leaned in, whispering with a sly edge, “Don’t get killed by the one who’s trying to protect you. That’d be one hell of a final act.”

  Then, in a sudden eye shift, sent goosebumps back to Sierra.

  “We’re here for the Knight convention. Let’s keep the bloodshed backstage, yes? Sierra of Indu.” Her smile was wide, unsettling, and she dragged Hans away.

  “She is dangerous—they are dangerous, Rudolf.” Sierra mumbled.

  “Well, you are the one who provoked them, wife. I hope that boy survives Dijkstra or at least grows a brain to avoid an unbeatable battle. Dijkstra is not your average crazy.”

  A moment when they were far from Concordia’s building. Hans whispered to her. “What if she recognises you? This whole fiasco will be over—”

  “I’m not you— I plan before I act. Do you think I’ve no idea what you are planning to do with the medallion of Eclipse—you want them here—this whole thing, your primary objective to be on the stage to call them here.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about, dear goddess.” Hans turned to the other way, imitating what she did when making him pay for her whims.

  Farther down, the air grew quieter. The road widened. The crowds thinned. A single building, tall and unfinished, loomed at the edge. Pale stone. No movement inside. Still scaffolding the outer arch.

  And there it was: the sigil of a swan, wings tucked, neck curved like calligraphy. It was painted in soft pearl on a curtain of dusk-blue velvet that hadn’t yet been hoisted all the way. The breeze caught it briefly, then let it drop.

  Clandor.

  They didn’t come yet. Unbothered by the tempo of the human world. Their late arrival wasn’t a delay—it was a declaration.

  Hans let out a low breath through his nose. He looked right opposite.

  Another building. This one with golden towers and stained-glass crests built into the windows themselves. The golden gryphon—.

  Parv.

  “Are they nuts? Having them opposite to each other—or are they trying to provoke them?”

  Hans shuddered and quickly moved down to the individual inns that hosted rogue knights, mercenaries, and merchants alike.

  The innkeeper asked for a name-tag.

  Hans had nothing and looked for Aadya, who seemed to be asking with her eyes: what the hell are you looking at me for. Their was no thorough check-up, nothing, at the gates, just give them your name and they’d let you in.

  A nation who was so neutral that no one eyed it.

  Hans answered the inn keeper. “I don’t have a thing like that—”

  The innkeeper promptly pointed, “you are a participant. You can get your name tags from booths.”

  Hans came out of the building. A stall not far from him was erected like a sour eye.

  He went there, noticing the same stalls were all over the place. Almost every corner of the street, but all were like ghost shops, no one trying to buy anything or interact with them. “That’s suspicious.” He muttered.

  “Just when any suspicious thing had stopped you.” Aadya encouraged, and the both reckless duo went to the nearest stall, which the innkeeper called booths.

  “Can I get my name tag here? I’m participating in the knight convention—”

  “Your name?” The booth owner asked with disinterest.

  “Theodred—”

  The name jolted the booth owner as if he had been parched for ages and suddenly found water. “You are telling the truth, right? You’ll pop like a balloon if you are lying upon check.”

  Hans showed him his hand. “Check it.”

  The owner grabbed a small crystal orb—similar to a communication orb—and touched it to Hans’s palm. The orb flared green, and relief flooded the man’s face.

  Quickly, he touched the orb to a blank name tag. Hans’s false name, ‘Theodred’, blinked into existence, sharp and official.

  “Here’s your identity in Indu,” the man said, his voice barely containing excitement.

  Hans raised an eyebrow. “What’s the big deal? You look like you won the lottery.”

  “Of course, I am.” The booth owner spilled like there was no tomorrow. He pointed to all other booths and leaned closer, whispering, “We small-time stall owners paid a fortune for these identity orbs from the temple, just to get the rights to bets on the participants we validate. Theodred, you? Invited by rank ten for the duel. I just got the rights to organise bets on a top ten duel.”

  Hans pocketed the tag, cold calculation sliding across his face. “Can I bet on myself?”

  “Yes, sir, you do. Just find me in the Knight association’s colosseum.”

  Back at the inn, he booked a room, just in case; in a week, the storm was about to break.