Martial Arts Vs Magic - Chapter 118

Book 4 | Chapter 1

Chapter 118: Whispers on the Sun-Scorched Border

Consciousness returned like a thief in the night, stealing away my expectations of pain. Instead of the searing agony I remembered, there was... absence. 

A void where sensation should have been.

I opened my eyes to a ceiling of packed mud and straw, crisscrossed with wooden beams worn smooth by time. My first coherent thought wasn't of strategy or power, but simple confusion.

Where am I?

I blinked, adjusting to the dim interior. This wasn't Nevaramis with its floating splendor. Not Waybound's elegant architecture. Not even the grand halls of the Romani estate, where servants would rush to attend to my every need.

I didn't remember coming here. The last moments of clarity flashed through my mind. Burning sand beneath my knees, Amelia's golden form disappearing into the horizon with Solara in her claws, my blood staining the desert floor crimson. The weight of my choices. And my proclamation to the empty wasteland.

Now, I lay on a straw-filled mattress that poked at my back through a threadbare sheet. The room smelled of dried herbs hanging from the rafters and something cooking—simple fare, lentils perhaps. A sliver of harsh sunlight cut across the room through a poorly patched window, and I noticed dust motes dancing in its beam.

What a sight, huh.

I closed my eyes, and in the darkness I saw faces from a life that seemed increasingly distant. Father's stern countenance, always expecting more. Mother's worried smile. Riasmin's intelligence and pride. Iaskin's goofiness and ambition. Sir Carlos and his unwavering loyalty...

Gone. All gone.

The first thing I woke up, the bitter truth settled in my chest like a stone. 

The Iskandaar Romani who had walked those elegant halls, who had commanded respect and fear in equal measure, was dead. I'd killed him when I sacrificed those people, when I proclaimed myself as some unbeatable Martial God, when I fled rather than face judgment.

I sighed, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet room.

“To be fair,” I muttered to myself, “it's not as if I ever was Iskandaar. Even if his family hates me now, it doesn't change much.”

I should have prepared my mind for such a future. I hadn't, though. So I felt a little bothered… but… oh well.

Deciding I'd spent more than enough time wallowing, I tried to push myself upright. 

A dull, distant pain radiated from my core, reminding me of my injuries. But something was wrong—terribly wrong. The pain wasn't just physical.

My Qi, normally a thundering river of energy within me, had reduced to a pitiful trickle, barely enough to register. I reached inward, probing my energy pathways, only to find them scarred and damaged beyond recognition. Channels that once flowed with power now lay barren and cracked like drought-stricken riverbeds.

Why?

My Demonic Sphere, that extension of my senses that had become as natural as breathing, refused to manifest beyond the faintest flicker around my immediate body. The world beyond arm's reach remained frustratingly cloudy, my awareness short.

I was spiritually blind. Vulnerable. Nearly crippled.

A wave of panic coursed through me. It was almost as bad as when I'd reached out with Temporal Overdraft only to find my future self dead. 

This wasn't just a momentary setback. My very foundation was broken.

I raised my left hand to my face, watching my fingers tremble. Then, I turned to my right side. The stump remained, but no forearm of ethereal light was there. 

The Phantom Hand technique that had served me so well was beyond my reach now, requiring an amount of Qi I did not possess. It bothered me.

“Lalala~”

The creak of a wooden door pulled me from my spiral of despair. 

A young woman entered, carrying a clay bowl that steamed faintly. She froze when she saw me awake, eyes widening slightly.

"Oh," she said softly, voice carrying the lilting cadence of the desert regions. "Rajaʿlak al-waʿy?”

What the fuck does that mean? I remained silent, assessing. I instinctively searched for information, for advantage.

The first thing I noticed was her striking coloration—skin darkened by the desert sun to a rich bronze, contrasting with startlingly luminous silver eyes. She didn't look much older than me, and wore simple clothes, a rough-spun tunic belted at the waist, practical for the harsh environment. Her hair was tied low with a strip of cloth, a few rebellious strands framing her face.

She looked confused seeing me stare at her instead of replying and approached cautiously, like one might a wounded animal. "Kīf ḥāsseh? Bitifhami ʿalayya?"

The way she pointed at her lips, I assumed she meant if I understood her. 

As my head cleared, I realized I did understand her. 

After all, my mother was the daughter of the Erebian Titan, it'd be a shame if she didn't teach her children the language. 

I didn't know how to speak the language though.

“I…” I tried speaking, and realized my voice was incredibly hoarse. 

She noticed, quickly turning to the side. There was a small table beside the bed, she put down the clay bowl there, grabbed a wooden cup of already ready water, and handed it to me. I accepted it, pouring it down my throat.

“I don't…” I said, wiping my lips as I put the cup on the table. “I understand you. But I can't speak Erabic much.”

Understanding softened her features. “Ah… I see…” she spoke English now. “My sorry… I assumed you did, given your appearance. Appearance? Is that the word?”

It was understandable to assume that, given my features. I did have Erebian ancestry, from my mother’s side.

She didn't seem used to English, but I was surprised she knew it at all. Given her outfit and the house I was in, she was a commoner. Why did she know English?

“Yes, uh… Appearance is the correct word. It's okay, you can speak Erabic, I said I understand it even if I don't speak it.” I explained slowly so that she didn't miss any words.

Relief softened her features, she showed a bright smile. "Good, good,” she said in Erabic. “You appear healthy if you're conversing so clearly. I wasn't sure... when Father found you, you were nearly dead. The vultures were circling already. Do you remember what happened to you?"

A decision point. 

Tell the truth and risk exposure, or create a new identity? In my state, anonymity was my only shield.

"I... don't remember," I said, my voice still rough from disuse.

Her gaze turned sympathetic. "The desert does that sometimes. Takes memories along with water." She helped me sit up, surprisingly strong for her slender frame. "Can you tell me your name, at least?"

"...I don't quite remember, but I think it was Alexander," I said, choosing the Western equivalent of Iskandaar. 

Common enough to avoid suspicion, close enough that I might respond naturally.

"Alexander, Alexander…" she repeated, testing the name. "I'm Lailah."

She didn't need to say it, I already knew that from the faint text hovering above her head. My Insight skill apparently still functioned despite my condition.

[Lailah, Level 7]

Her level was normal for a common girl, but it was a little surprising to meet someone so low leveled after so long.

Rather than the level, it was the name that struck a faint chord of familiarity. I didn't know what, though. Ultimately, I had to dismiss it as needless paranoia. Plus it wasn't a rare name.

"Where am I?" I asked, maintaining my facade of confusion.

"Our home, about an hour's walk from Scorpion's Kiss," she replied, lifting the bowl from the table. "You should eat something. You've been unconscious for three days."

Hey, but what's Scorpion's Kiss?

I wanted to ask, but let it rest for now. She said three days… The hunt for me would be well underway by now. Churches, guilds, perhaps even the Empire itself mobilizing to find the demon who had challenged their gods.

Before I could accept the bowl from her, Lailah dipped a crude wooden spoon into the broth and held it toward my mouth. I stared at her, uncomprehending for a moment.

She sighed, gesturing to my missing arm. "From your posture when you accepted the water cup earlier, you're right-handed. And well... you don't have a right hand anymore. You don't look like a commoner, but don't be too proud—say 'aah.'"

The indignity of it struck me. I, who had clashes against 9th Ascension demigods, who had shaped reality itself, reduced to being spoon-fed like an infant.

“....”

After a moment of stubborn silence, I opened my mouth.

****

There was nothing to complain about, really. The broth was thin but surprisingly flavorful—desert herbs and what might have been rabbit. 

"Thank you," I managed in Erabic by the time she finished, the words feeling foreign on my tongue.

Lailah smiled grandly, the expression transforming her solemn face. "Of course, Alexander. It's not often we find half-dead strangers in the desert, especially ones who survive."

As she raised the water cup to my lips, the door swung open. 

A middle-aged man entered, tall and weathered by sun and hardship. His face was kind but lined with the evidence of a difficult life, his beard streaked with gray despite not seeming particularly old.

Lailah startled, an embarrassed flush coloring her cheeks. "Father! Knock?!”

He laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "Don't stop on my account, daughter. Our guest needs his strength."

Lailah ducked her head slightly but continued feeding me water even as her father approached. 

"I'm Rafin," he said, wiping his hand on his pants, and extending a calloused hand before glancing at my missing arm and awkwardly withdrawing it. "Uh, glad to see you awake. We weren't sure you'd make it."

"Alexander," I replied in English, nodding in acknowledgment. "I owe you my life."

“Hm?” The man looked a little confused, and turned to his daughter for help.

“He said he owes you his life,” she translated for me, and his eyes lit up.

"Ah, no, no. Any decent man would have done the same," Rafin said, settling onto a rough wooden stool. "Though I admit, not many travel through this part of the desert. You're lucky I was out checking the irrigation channels.”

“I assume so. I'm lucky you checked, Mr Rafin,” I said slowly.

The man didn't seem to understand once again, and turned to his daughter, who did a quick translation. Rafin rubbed his chin, “Hmm, you're not from here?”

“He's not, Father,” Lailah answered for me. “He can't even speak Erabic, but he understands. And he lost his memories, it seems. So he can't say where he's from before he recovers properly.” 

I studied the man as Lailah continued speaking. Level 22—a common farmer's level, nothing remarkable. His clothing was simple but well-mended, speaking to care despite limited means.

"If you don't mind, where exactly am I?" I asked, maintaining my pretense of disorientation.

"Well we're in the borderlands," Rafin explained, "between the Erebian Empire and the Deserts. We're on the outskirts of Scorpion's Kiss, a trading post that's grown into something of a city over the years." His tone suggested mixed feelings about this development.

"A city?" I prompted.

Rafin's eyes crinkled. "Of sorts. It's where the desperate and ambitious come when they have nowhere else to go. Not the worst place in the world, but not the best either." He paused. "The new Baron keeps order, more or less."

"New Baron?" I kept my tone casual.

"He was a Warlord who caught the Empire's attention," Rafin explained. "They decided it was easier to give him a title than try to unseat him. Practical solution, I suppose."

Lailah's shoulders trembled slightly when she heard those words. I caught her eye, noting the slight tightening around her mouth at the mention of this Baron. Interesting.

"We live outside the city for the peace," Rafin continued, either not noticing or choosing to ignore his daughter's reaction. "Farming's hard in this soil, but honest work."

As if to distract herself, Lailah grabbed the end of her dress to wipe water from my lips. I was surprised, but before I could reply, Rafin stood and retrieved a small bundle from a shelf. "I managed to find some meat this morning—just a desert hare, but it'll make the stew heartier tonight. It's not much, but honest fare. Should help you recover."

The simple statement revealed volumes about their circumstances. 

These weren't wealthy people, yet they'd taken in a stranger, sharing their limited resources without hesitation.

"You've both been too kind," I said in a low voice, moved despite myself. "I don't know how I'll repay you."

"Recover first," Rafin said firmly. "Worry about the rest later."

I nodded, settling back against the rough pillow. My thoughts whirled beneath my placid expression. The borderlands—I'd heard about this region before, though never to this particular settlement. 

If I remembered correctly, we weren't far from where Amelia had mentioned her father's domain might be.

The Saharan Deserts and the Erebian Empire didn't have any physical borders. The borders exist in name, but everyone respected it. Everyone who doesn't want to be melted by a Gold Dragon's breath, that is. 

The Saharan Deserts were vast, home to numerous hidden powers. Dragons ruled, but there were many other species here too.

Problem was, the exact location of the Gold Dragon territories weren't marked on any map, but if I could recover enough to travel deeper into the desert, I should be able to find Amelia and Solara.

But that'd be incredibly difficult given my current condition.

First, I needed to regain at least some measure of strength.

"Cooking meat will be a little difficult, Father. I guess I should go into the city soon," Lailah said, taking the empty bowl. "We need salt, and the irrigation channels have been acting up again."

"Do you need help?" I offered, knowing I was in no condition to provide any.

"Hm? No," she replied firmly. "You need rest, mista. I can handle Scorpion's Kiss."

There it was again—that slight tension in her shoulders when mentioning the city. Something there troubled her, but she was obviously trying to hide it.

Rafin nodded in agreement. "Stay and recover, Alexander. City's no place for someone in your condition, especially a stranger."

The warning was gentle but clear. I didn't want to risk it either, unless necessary.  "As you say,” I nodded, filing the information away.

"Rest now," Lailah said, moving toward the door. "I'll check on you before I leave.”

After they departed, I remained seated on the bed, staring at the mud wall, cataloging my situation with clinical detachment. 

My physical injuries were severe but healing. 

The most concerning damage was to my Qi system. It was extensive enough that I questioned whether I would ever fully recover. It'd be really difficult.

My skills were effectively dormant, and my true identity remained my only real asset—one I couldn't reveal without risking execution or worse.

This was honestly insane.

I'd gone from commanding the destiny of a city to relying on the charity of peasants.

The irony wasn't lost on me.

****

Later that afternoon, Lailah helped me to the front of their humble dwelling. The effort left me embarrassingly winded, but the opportunity to survey my surroundings outweighed the indignity.

The hut stood isolated on a slight rise, surrounded by a patchwork of irrigated fields that fought valiantly against the encroaching desert. 

In the distance, shimmering in the heat haze, rose the ramshackle silhouette of what must be Scorpion's Kiss. Even from here, I could make out the unplanned sprawl, structures built upon structures with no coherent design.

The wind carried the faint sounds of commerce and life, a dull murmur punctuated occasionally by shouts or laughter. A road snaked from the city's gates into the surrounding countryside, eventually passing near Rafin's property.

As we stood in the meager shade offered by the hut's overhang, I noticed a figure on the road glance in our direction. 

The distance was too great to make out details, but the deliberate way they spat before continuing on their way was unmistakable.

Lailah pretended not to notice, but her grip on my good arm tightened fractionally.

There was something going on here.

"The city seems lively," I said, watching her reaction.

"Yes, well, it has its moments," she said carefully. "Trade brings all sorts through here—merchants from Erebia, nomads from the deep desert, adventurers seeking their fortune. Many different species other than humans, too.”

"And you trade there regularly?"

A slight pause. "When necessary. We're mostly self-sufficient, but some things can't be grown or made." 

“Fair point.”

She turned away, ostensibly to adjust her headscarf against the sun. "I should head out soon, before the day grows hotter."

Her apprehension was subtle but I didn't miss it. Something—or someone—in that city troubled her. Or maybe it was more than one thing.

"I wish I could accompany you," I said, testing.

"No, no," she replied, too quickly. Then, softening her tone. "You'd collapse before we reached the gates. Perhaps another time, when you're stronger."

I nodded, not pushing further. "Be careful, then."

"Always am," she said with a smile. She was a cheerful girl, caring for her family.

After she prepared for her journey and departed, I remained outside, taking stock of my surroundings. 

Rafin worked in the nearest field, his motions practiced and efficient despite the punishing sun. I watched him for a time, struck by the simple dignity of his labor.

Eventually, the heat drove me back inside. I settled on the edge of the bed, focusing inward. I tried to circulate what little Qi remained in my system, but the effort brought searing pain that left me gasping.

What the fuck is going on?

Was it Event Horizon, or the fact that I performed that ritual?

No, no. If I had to guess, it was a mix of everything. I hadn't really recovered after firing Temporal Overdraft, and proceeded to use an extremely dangerous ritual which filled my energy vessels more than they could bear. Instead of stopping, I used Photon Ring to hold more.

At the very end, the portion of that damage which was fixed and healed by going up an Ascension was further ruined when I attempted a whole Worldforge. Event Horizon was strong enough to suppress peak 8th Ascension entities, so naturally, it came with such severe side effects when I lacked enough power to execute it properly.

I’d pushed myself a bit too much. I didn’t regret it; it helped me survive, but the problems were undeniable. 

My pathways weren't just damaged. 

They were fundamentally altered now. Like rivers whose courses had been violently changed by some cataclysm, creating new formations that no longer followed natural laws.

When the pain subsided, I stared at my trembling hand. This would take more than rest and time. I needed specialized knowledge, perhaps even divine intervention, for a proper recovery. Although I did have one way to fix it all…

“Well, not really,” I sighed.

For all my grand resolution when Amelia left, I felt lost now. I thought everything would be alright once I woke up. Instead, I was trapped—dependent on the kindness of strangers who had no idea of the danger my presence posed to them.

I lay back, listening to the silence of the small dwelling. So different from the constant activity of Academy life or the bustle of aristocratic existence. Here, there was only the occasional distant call of a desert bird or the soft whisper of sand against the walls when the wind rose.

The simplicity was almost painful in contrast to what I'd lost. Family, friends, power—all seemingly beyond reach now.

Lilian... was she safe? Had Ralian managed to protect her from the chaos in Merasca? And Nebula—had she remained with her mother, or had Munera abandoned her once more when danger struck? What of Solara, broken and burned, carried away by Amelia? Had she survived?

The questions circled like vultures, offering no answers.

After wallowing for what felt like hours, disgust at my own self-pity finally drove me to action. I pushed myself up, ignoring the protest of damaged muscles, and made my way carefully to the door.

Outside, Rafin still labored, now repairing what appeared to be an irrigation channel that had collapsed. The sun beat down mercilessly, yet he worked steadily, pausing only occasionally to wipe sweat from his brow.

I took a deep breath and stepped out into the heat. Steadying myself against the wall, I called out in Erabic. "Need a hand?"

Rafin looked up, surprise evident on his weathered face. "Your one? Nah, young man. You should be resting."

"I've rested enough," I replied, making my way slowly down the slight incline toward him. "Work heals better than idleness."

He eyed me skeptically. "You look like a strong breeze might knock you over."

"Then I'll sit and pass you tools," I countered, the stubborn pride that had sustained me through countless battles refusing to yield even now. "I owe you for my life. Let me repay something of the debt."

After a moment's consideration, Rafin nodded. "From the muscles I see on you, you’re definitely not the lazy type,” he said. Indeed, my crippling Qi hadn’t taken away my abs and boulder-sized biceps. “Very well then, maybe working will help you recover faster. But tell me if you need to stop."

I lowered myself carefully beside his work area, where various simple tools lay scattered. As I handed him what he needed, I observed his methodical approach to mending the channel.

"You've done this many times," I noted.

"Too many," he agreed with a wry smile. "Desert's always trying to reclaim what we've taken. It's patient, but so am I."

We worked in companionable silence for a time, the rhythm of labor providing a kind of meditation. Despite my weakness, the simple task of being useful again eased something in my chest.

"How can the Heavenly Demon be reduced to this?" I murmured so softly that Rafin couldn't possibly hear.

His hands paused briefly in their work. "Did you say something?"

"Just wondering how anyone makes a living out here," I covered smoothly. "It seems like a constant battle."

Rafin nodded, resuming his task. "That it is. But some battles are worth fighting, even when victory is never complete." He glanced at me. "The same might be said for your recovery, I imagine."

The simple wisdom struck deeper than he could know. I handed him another tool, considering his words.

Some battles are worth fighting, even when victory is never complete.

The man had no idea who sat beside him, what I had done, what I had been. Yet perhaps he understood more than I gave him credit for.

Under the merciless desert sun, broken and diminished, I felt something stir within me. Not the overwhelming power that had once been mine, but something more fundamental.

Determination. The will to survive. To overcome. The essence of the Heavenly Demon had never been about raw power alone. It had been about indomitable will.

And that, at least, remained unbroken.

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The Veiled Man: Let me know if you like Chapter 1 of Book 4!!! We're going to explore a lot of new stuff here