The Veiled Man
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Martial Arts Vs Magic - Chapter 133
🕑 Added 2025-06-16 16:00:20 +0000 UTCChapter 133: The Path to Dragons
The Saharan Desert stretched beneath me like an ocean of molten gold, each of the dunes painted like a frozen wave in an endless sea of sand. Unlike the border town of Scorpion’s Kiss, this was totally the land of dragons and beasts.
The sun hung overhead, a merciless white eye that would have blinded lesser men, but the Photon Ring's radiance made it seem pale by comparison. Wind whipped past at speeds that should have torn flesh from bone, yet I felt nothing but exhilaration.
This is what it means to be whole.
The thought came unbidden, accompanied by the phantom memory of my missing arm. I flexed my right hand, still marveling at its existence. The Heavenly Demon Body had not only restored what was lost, but it also reforged me beyond limits. Qi flowed through my channels like a river finally freed from a dam, my breathing drawing in more power than I'd possessed before Merasca.
Vyrn shifted on my head, his ethereal talons finding purchase despite the wind. The spectral owl had become such a constant companion that I barely noticed his weight anymore. Just another part of me, like the dual cores that pulsed in my chest.
"King of a ghost city," I muttered, the words lost to the wind. "Sounds impressive until you realize it's just me, an android with identity issues, and whatever maintenance drones she's awakened."
The irony wasn't lost on me. I'd gained a kingdom and lost... what? Not friends—they were safe, pursuing their own paths. Not power—I'd never been stronger. Not family—they were never truly mine, were they?
Perhaps what I'd lost was simplicity. The ability to be just another student, another adventurer, another face in the crowd.
When was the last time I was ever just another face? The question brought a wry smile. Even before this world, before the Heavenly Demon's memories, I'd never been content with anonymity.
A plume of smoke on the horizon caught my attention. Finally, signs of civilization. I’d been flying around for a few days now, and given there was no result so far, I think the Gold Dragon Clan's realm was a hidden realm, shielded by magics that made my own concealment techniques look like parlor tricks.
I needed information on how to access it, and that meant finding locals who might know the way.
The Photon Ring dimmed as I descended, transforming from a blazing comet to a controlled glide. The settlement below grew larger, revealing itself to be more than just another desert waystation.
Dune's Rest sprawled around a cluster of massive petrified trees, their ancient trunks twisted into impossible spirals that defied both nature and time. The settlement had grown organically around these landmarks, a chaotic maze of adobe huts, hide tents, and more permanent structures that looked carved from solid sandstone.
I landed a mile out, dismissing the Photon Ring entirely. No need to announce myself as anything more than another traveler seeking shade and information. My hood came up, shadowing my features, though I couldn't hide the quality of my clothes or the way I moved. True power had a way of bleeding through any disguise.
Then, I began to walk.
The first thing that hit me was the smell—exotic spices competing with roasted meat, the metallic tang of mana crystals mixing with the earthier scents of too many bodies in too small a space. The second was the heat, different from the desert's dry embrace. This was the humid and oppressive heat of civilization.
Lizardfolk dominated the crowds, their scales catching the light in a thousand different hues. I saw merchants hawking everything from water (at criminal prices) to weapons that glowed with barely contained enchantments. Mercenaries lounged in whatever shade they could find, eyeing every new arrival with professional assessment.
My Sovereign's Gaze activated without conscious thought, the world shifting into overlapping layers of perception.
The merchant's hidden blade, insurance against thieves. The mercenary whose casual posture concealed three separate escape routes. The child pickpocket who took one look at me and decided to find easier prey.
Smart kid.
The tavern I chose was neither the best nor the worst—those attracted the wrong kind of attention. Middle ground was where information flowed most freely, where tongues loosened by average alcohol spoke of extraordinary things.
"Whiskey," I told the bartender, a lizardfolk whose scales had faded to the color of old copper. "And information, if you're selling."
His forked tongue flicked out, tasting the air. "Whiskey's two silver. Information depends on what you're buying."
I placed a gold coin on the bar, keeping my finger on it. Now that I had access to my Soul Storage again, I wasn’t poor. "The Gold Dragon Clan. I want to know about the ways to reach out to them."
The conversations around me didn't stop, but they quieted. The bartender's vertical pupils contracted. "Can't help you there, traveler. Don't know nothing about dragons."
Lie. His heart rate had spiked, and the faint shimmer of nervous sweat on his scales caught my enhanced vision. But pressing would only close doors. I pocketed the gold and paid for my drink with silver, sipping the burn while listening to the ambient conversation.
"—told him the Sunstone Gauntlet wasn't for amateurs, but did he listen?"
"—Scale Token's the only way in, everyone knows that—"
"—registration closes at sunset, better hurry if you're thinking—"
Patterns emerged. Warriors of a certain caliber, all moving toward the settlement's edge. Excited whispers about tournaments and tokens. My interest sharpened like a blade finding its edge.
Also…
This place smelled of demons. A lot of them.
I followed the flow of traffic, noting how the quality of the warriors improved the closer I got to my destination. No more drunken sellswords or desperate adventurers. These were professionals coming from many different races, each radiating the kind of confidence that came from surviving where others hadn't.
The stall that caught my attention overflowed with curiosities—maps that showed lands I'd never heard of, fangs from beasts that shouldn't exist, crystals that hummed with energies that made my cores resonate in sympathy. But it was the proprietor that truly interested me.
[Xylo, Demon-Touched Lizardmen, Level 107]
Interesting attribute he has. Xylo was ancient in the way that only reptiles could be, his obsidian scales cracked with age but still holding an inner fire. His eyes held the weight of centuries, and when they fixed on me, I felt truly seen for the first time since arriving. [1]
"You carry the scent of great power and greater trouble, traveler," he hissed, not bothering with the usual merchant's patter.
"Story of my life." I leaned against his counter, abandoning pretense. "I need to reach the Gold Dragon Clan. I'm told you might know the way."
"Many things I know. Many things I sell. But knowledge of that magnitude..." His tongue flicked out again, and his eyes narrowed. "Interesting. Very interesting."
"If you're about to tell me I smell like demons, yes, I'm aware. I think it’s allowed in these harsh lands, no? Given that someone like you is working here. Can we move past it?"
His laugh was like scales over stone. "Bold. I like bold. But I have no need for your coin, young demon-touched. I am a collector of the rare and impossible, and you..." He leaned forward. "You are an impossibility walking. Two cores that should annihilate each other, beating in harmony. Show me, and I’ll tell you."
That sounded fair enough. It was understandable to be curious about my cores. "Here? In the middle of this crowd?"
"Not here." He gestured to an alley between his stall and a leather worker's shop. "Private showing. If the sight is worthy of the knowledge, it is yours."
“Eh, sure. Let’s go.” We began to walk. I should have been suspicious. Was suspicious. But sometimes the direct path was the only path worth taking.
The alley was narrow, shadowed, and exactly the kind of place where ambushes happened. Which is why I wasn't surprised when Xylo's claws went for my throat the moment we were out of sight.
I let him pin me, his weight considerable despite his age. His breath smelled of copper and old magic.
"Which General do you serve?" he hissed. "Whose mark do you bear?"
"Why?" I kept my voice conversational despite the claws at my throat. I had a quick understanding of this situation. He wasn’t the only demon I smelled since coming here, after all. The Demon King’s army was in this city. That wasn’t surprising given how barbaric this place was. So, I decided to bait him. "You’re uncertain which General is messing around, since this mission is supposed to be under you guys’ jurisdiction?"
His hesitation was all I needed. My hand closed around his wrist, and suddenly our positions were reversed. He hit the alley wall with enough force to crack stone, my forearm across his throat.
"I don't serve anyone," I said quietly. "I am what I am by choice, not chains. Now, do you want to see what you asked for, or should we continue this dance?"
Fear flickered in those ancient eyes, followed by something like evasion. "Show me."
I released him and stepped back. He was trying to evaluate me, and I really didn’t want to bother fighting him since he had allies around. So I was just going to scare him. No point in making enemies.
I broke down the affinity of my dantian core from Demonic to Stellar and Destruction. Drawing on both types simultaneously was like conducting a symphony where half the orchestra wanted to murder the other half. Stellar Qi blazed from my left hand, brilliant and pure. Destruction Qi coiled around my right, darker than the space between stars.
"You wanted to see this?"
The true demonstration came when I brought my hands together. The energies should have detonated, should have leveled the alley and half the settlement with it. Instead, they wove together into a perfect ring of light and darkness, a miniature Photon Ring that spun lazily above my palm.
Xylo's eyes went wide. "Impossible. How is an independent demon so strong, and how haven’t we heard of you…?"
"I get that a lot. I’ve been in secluded training lately," I dismissed the energies, letting them settle back into their respective cores. "Satisfied?"
He straightened his robes, dignity reassembling itself piece by piece. "More than! Haha, sorry brother, I wanted to make sure you weren’t from a rival General. I already had a hunch, but seeing such a display, I know no other General has someone of your calibre.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
“Yes, yes, that was a compliment. My name is Xylo, by the way, one of the Savage Sevens serving under His Majesty, the Demon King.” He gave me a proud look.
Interesting, he’s an equal to the dark elf and troll I defeated back in Waybound. Is the troll also here? That’d be troublesome if true; he’d recognize me.
Xylo then he sighed. “Hah, you’re not even impressed. Understandable, given your set of abilities. I want to recruit you, but you’re above my pay grade since you’re so strong independently. What a pity... Ehh, let’s just start by being friends for now. I’m sure if we spend more time together and I enlighten you on the Demon King’s motivations, you’ll be interested over time.”
“Can we move to the important parts?”
He cleared his throat at my urgency. “Of course, of course. You seek the Gold Dragons? Then you seek the Sunstone Gauntlet."
Finally, progress. "Tell me more."
What followed was a masterclass in exposition disguised as gossip. The Gold Dragon Clan existed in Aethelgard, a pocket dimension anchored to our reality but accessible only to those who proved themselves worthy. Which was usually never since nobody stood at the pocket dimension’s gate and asked for a test of worthiness.
That was different now. Recently, a tournament was brewing. The Sunstone Gauntlet was their recruitment tool, a tournament that separated the wheat from the chaff.
"Win here, place in the top four, and you receive a Scale Token," Xylo explained. "That token grants passage to Aethelgard for the regional tournament. Win there, and doors open that most can only dream of."
"Isn’t that too many tournaments? I guess some sort of event must be going on… Look, I’m not really interested in those. What if I just want to visit a friend?" I asked in hope.
His laugh was dry as desert wind. "Brother, if you had a friend in Athelgard, you wouldn’t be in this backwater place. Nope, the dragons don't receive visitors. You compete, or you stay outside. Those are the only options."
I studied the registration tent he pointed out, noting the caliber of warriors entering and leaving. A woman with an axe that radiated barely contained violence. Twin mages whose synchronized movements spoke of years fighting as one. A cloaked figure whose presence felt muted, as if they existed only partially in this reality.
"Interesting competition," I mused.
"You'll fit right in." Xylo's tone turned sly. "Even if you’re an independent demon, you must have a master, right? Who is it? If it’s someone well known, the reputation itself might carry you into the finals without having to participate in the lower fights. So?"
"Don't talk to me about this." I turned away, already tired of the assumption. Just because I embraced demonic arts didn't mean I bent knee to their politics. I was a Demonic ‘Human’ – a Demonic Cultivator. There was a difference.
The registration process was surprisingly straightforward. Gold changed hands, forms were filled with false information, and I received a bronze token that thrummed with latent magic.
"Your match begins at dawn, Mister, uh, Hand of the Dark Heavens," the clerk informed me, eyeing my chosen alias with a raised eyebrow. "Don't be late."
I hefted the token, feeling its weight. It was a pleasant thing, and I smiled, waiting for dawn. For the first time in a long time, the path forward was straight. No traps, no weakness, just a simple brawl out.
I couldn’t wait to throw some hands.
****
His name was Qadir Al-Faris, though few alive remember the scrawny street thief who once picked pockets in Erebia's lower districts. Time and proximity to power had transformed him into something altogether different.
Now he was the Duke of Valemont, right hand to the Titan of Erebia, confidant to the legendary Sikandar the Great.
Any other man would have basked in the glory of such elevation. From street rat to Duke, from nobody to somebody who made kingdoms tremble. Qadir had learned long ago that glory was just another word for target, and he preferred the shadows where real power moved.
That was why people knew him by his knighthood rather than his Duke title. Because the man he served was greater than any Dukes, and perhaps Emperors as well. Qadir had learned long ago that glory was just another word for target, and he preferred the shadows where real power moved.
The communication chamber chimed with magical energy, crystalline arrays focusing impossible distances into intimate proximity. Sikandar sat before the projection, a mane of red hair framing his face, his massive frame making the reinforced chair groan. Even seated, he dominated the room, presence alone enough to make lesser men kneel.
But the young woman in the projection showed no such deference.
"What is it, Father? Why have you called?" Rithea Romani's voice could have frozen the desert. Beautiful as her mother, strong as her father, and absolutely unwilling to forgive either comparison.
Qadir watched his oldest friend's shoulders tighten, the only sign of hurt the Titan would allow himself. Sikandar had faced armies without flinching, had broken kingdoms with his bare hands, but his daughter's disdain cut deeper than any blade.
"Rithea," Sikandar's voice was carefully neutral. "You look well."
"I do, because thankfully, I haven’t had to see your face in years. Now get to the point." She crossed her arms, every line of her body showing impatience. "Unlike you, I have actual responsibilities."
The barb landed. Qadir saw it in the way Sikandar's jaw clenched. Responsibilities. As if raising kingdoms and crushing rebellions counted for nothing. As if choosing duty over family was somehow easier than the alternative.
"It's about my grandson, that boy," Sikandar said finally. "About Iskandaar." The child who was named after him. The child who was the last sign that his daughter still held love for him.
The temperature in the projection seemed to drop twenty degrees. "What about my boy?"
"I've heard about the recent situations he's found himself entangled in."
"And you call now?" Her laugh was bitter as winter wine. "A month after old men ganged up on him, and then forced him to run away? How very grandfatherly of you."
"I didn’t want to show you this face you hate so much. But I wasn’t left with any choice now. Because..." Sikandar's massive hands clenched and unclenched. "The Emperor has noticed him. He reached out to me because Iskandaar nearly killed the 7th Prince, forcing him to use an emergency teleportation artifact to barely survive. His personal knight is already dead. So the Emperor wants me to find Iskandaar."
The explosion was immediate and devastating. Rithea shot to her feet, power crackling around her like a living thing. "Don't you dare. Don't you fucking dare!"
"...."
"Listen to me." She leaned toward the projection, and Qadir instinctively stepped back despite knowing she was countries away. "You listen to me, old man. You chose your empire over your family once already. You chose duty over my mother, and she died alone while you played soldier for an Emperor who sees you as nothing more than a useful tool."
"It was war, my sweet child. War between two Arcane Kings, a war stupid enough to cost the lives of billions. The Erebian Emperor and the Ethenian Emperor were ready to destroy it all. I had to make a choice to stop it."
Sikandar, the War Hero. He’d earned that title for a reason.
"Don't give me those excuses. What you did was great, heroic, even I would admit that for all my disdain, but that connecting to the choice of leaving mother? When… when she was bedridden, dying?” Magic flared, making the projection flicker. "You left her, that’s the only truth. You left us and married someone who wasn’t sick. And now you want to hunt my son because your master commands it?"
Qadir closed his eyes and sighed. The young lady has no idea. Could his master ever love someone as much as he loved his first wife?
Despite her enraging words, Sikandar could never get angry at his dear daughter. His voice was barely a whisper. "He's turned to demonic arts, Rithea. The things he's done…"
"The things he's done?" Her laugh was wild now, edged with hysteria. "He saved a city, almost like his Grandfather’s glorious past, and then he fled to save his life! He thrived! He became something magnificent while you sat in your palace pretending we didn't exist!"
"I never—"
"If I hear you've hurt my son," she cut him off, her words precise as a blade between ribs, "you're never going to hear me call you father again. Goodbye, Father." She said that word as if it were the last time she’d ever say it.
The projection died, leaving only silence and the ghost of her fury. Qadir waited, counting heartbeats. Ten. Twenty. Fifty. Finally, Sikandar spoke.
"She's right."
"My lord—"
"No, Qadir. She's right." The Titan stood slowly, joints protesting decades of war. "I chose duty. I chose the Empire. I chose everything except them. You know I can never blame her for her anger."
"You did what you had to do, my lord," Qadir said carefully. "If not for you, and only you, both the Empires would have destroyed each other. Every noble from both Empires would kowtow and admit that truth."
"The Emperor needed a weapon, and I gave him one." Sikandar moved to the window, looking out over lands he'd conquered but never truly owned. "Do you know what the cruelest part is?"
Qadir remained silent. In thirty years of friendship, he'd learned when to speak and when to listen.
"He could have sent anyone. An Inquisitor. A full battalion. Even the Holy Knights, who are slavering for the chance since they now theorize one of them have been killed by Iskandaar." Sikandar's laugh was hollow. "But he sent me. I know he meant it out of respect. To not let someone else hurt my grandson. But…"
"My lord..."
"Respect." The word dripped poison. "He wants me to be the one to put Iskandaar down. To look my grandson in the eyes and choose empire over blood. Again. What do I do, Qadir?" he said, and Qadir had never seen his lord so powerless.
The window cracked under Sikandar's grip. Qadir pretended not to notice. He waited for the storm of his lord's grief and fury to pass, but it only settled into a heavier, more dangerous calm.
After a long moment, Qadir made a decision. He cleared his throat, a sound swallowed by the cavernous room. "My lord, if I may… there is another detail from the Merasca reports. One that was deliberately obscured in the initial dispatches sent to us."
Sikandar did not turn. His voice was rough, like stone grinding on stone. "My head is full of ghosts, Qadir. Let the reports wait for the morning."
"Forgive my insistence," Qadir pressed, his own voice quiet but firm. "But this detail changes the nature of the entire event, I think... It concerns the last Phoenix. Solara Fenixia was there. Your friend’s granddaughter."
The massive shoulders went still.
The air in the chamber grew thick, heavy with unspoken history. Slowly, the Titan turned his head, and the weariness in his eyes was replaced by a sharp, piercing focus. "Why wasn't I informed of this before?"
"It seems certain parties wished for us not to know. Most likely the United Church fearing your wrath. They buried it deep. But my sources are thorough." Qadir met his lord’s gaze without flinching. "The two were not merely allies from the Academy, my lord. By all accounts, they are lovers. Intimately so. Much of Iskandaar's... outburst... was a direct response to the Church of Destruction trying to kill her. He fought to protect her."
Solara Fenixia. After the Fenixia were annihilated, with only Solara remaining out of pure luck, Sikandar had gone to Ethenia and declared, “You killed them, I’ll let it slide. But this is my sworn brother’s last blood. If even a strand of her hair falls, be ready for the [Fist of a Titan]!"
The United Church did not want to take the chance. So they tried to bury that fact.
The silence that followed was different now. It was not the silence of grief, but of profound contemplation. Of rage. Sikandar’s gaze drifted back to the cracked window, but he wasn't seeing the conquered lands outside. He was seeing something else entirely.
A boy fighting for a girl. A power unleashed not for conquest, but for preservation. A choice made in the crucible of love and desperation.
He saw a mirror.
When he finally spoke, the rage was gone from his voice, replaced by a deep, aching weariness that seemed to pull at the very foundations of his being.
"…Is the girl alright?"
The question was so soft it was almost lost, but to Qadir, it was louder than any war cry. It was the question of a grandfather, not a general.
"The reports are chaotic, my lord," Qadir answered honestly. "She was gravely injured during the battle. Iskandaar took her with him when he fled. If anyone in that hellscape could have saved her... it would have been him."
Sikandar closed his eyes, a long, shuddering breath escaping him.
The image was now complete. His grandson, a monster born of forbidden arts, but a monster who protected what he loved, even at the cost of his own soul. A monster who refused to leave the one he cared for to die alone.
He turned from the window, and Qadir saw something in his friend's eyes that hadn't been there before. Not doubt, but a flicker of understanding. Of a terrible, shared history.
"Find him," Sikandar commanded, his voice regaining its familiar weight of mountains. "Find my grandson before the others do."
"And then?"
"Then..." The Titan sat back down, suddenly looking every one of his seventy years, despite being a 9th Ascension immortal powerhouse. “We pray his Demonic Arts are strong enough to put a hole through my chest.”
Although he said that, Qadir wasn’t sure what his old friend would do, truly.
**
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[1] For the attribute thing, I’ve edited the previous chapter when he saw the text above the Hierarch of Leviathan Cult since that’s the first time he used his newly evolved eyes to observe someone’s name, level. Her attribute is Leviathan Worshipper.
Comments
The Hand Behind the Veil
Yep, I have plans for the Forsaken Alchemist this book 🔥🔥🔥
Ron1990
Oh, this is promising. Last arc ending with a feeling of satisfaction and now we get the promise of a really epic end of this one. And a fair bit of family tragedy. And a tournament... I'm in a candy shop 🤩! One wish I have though. Maldric Othrandar, perhaps he could find his wife (for good or bad, who knows), perhaps he gets hunted by minions of Quadir to gather intel, but more important, in the end he should get a seat at Nevaramis. Iska's cult seems to be more of quality than quantitiy, so he would fit nicely imho. (Oh, and please no Tekken Blood Vengeance solution for Iska and Sika 🥺)
The Hand Behind the Veil
Perhaps the news that only 8th Ascension fighters were present there added to their doubts. Nobody could be sure if a 9th Ascension person couldn't defeat the Outer God. Plus, the public narrative might be that Iskandaar didn't do it alone, but was just one of the main fighters instead of being the major force in the battle as we as readers know
LT Butterfly287
I don’t really understand why we aren’t even acknowledging the fact that he single handedly defeated an outer god. The fact that he achieved something that as far as we know at the moment that no one less than the apex of their world could hope to slow down seems like a big point to ignore.
