The main square of one of the city-states of the Strange Lands looked somewhat unusual to Hadjar, who was accustomed to the opulence of the capitals of the Seven Empires, the sheer luxury of the Dragon Lands, or the vast grandeur of the dwarves’ country. It was a small, very well-maintained square, which could fit about a thousand people in it. There were no more than fifty thousand people living in the whole city, which had neat houses, narrow streets, a miniature skyport, from which boats and, rarely, some small ships would depart.

While the local cities, villages, and fortresses were tiny by the standards of the Nameless World, he knew that he shouldn’t underestimate them just because of that. The Strange Lands were a rebellious and dangerous area. The strongest representatives of all the races from all forty-nine regions of the Nameless World lived here.

It was the last stronghold of the Mortal Lands, as the locals called it. There was a belief that anyone who traversed all four ends of these lands would grasp Immortality and go to the Land of the Immortals, throwing off the shackles of the Heavens and the Earth in the process. Hadjar knew that the exact opposite was actually true. Those who became Immortal would, in fact, be putting on the shackles of the laws of the universe and could no longer interfere in the lives of ordinary humans and nonhumans. This was the only thing that prevented the gods, demons, and Immortals from starting some incredible mess in places where their breath alone could destroy entire civilizations.

One should also avoid being fooled by the outward simplicity of these cities as well. The materials with which the streets had been paved, the houses had been built with, and even utensils had been carved from, were all incredibly durable, magical rock. For example, the sticks that Hadjar had used during his training were carved from Omalgezh wood. A shield made of Omalgezh wood would be able to withstand several shots from one of the cannons of ‘The Fury of the Mortal Skies.’

The coaches used by local merchants looked no worse on the inside than the Palaces of Dahanatan, and had the same amount of interior space. Magic…

The boats flying over the Strange Lands were faster than the eyes of not only a mortal, but even a weak true cultivator could follow. It really was a region that stood almost at the very peak of the path of cultivation.

Right now, a part of their group was sitting in one of the local taverns, the windows of which overlooked the central city square, behind a city wall that was only fifteen feet thick, but so sturdy that the entire White Fang army couldn’t have broken through it even after ten years of relentless assault.

“Are you thinking about something again, kid?”

Abraham sat cross-legged, lazily sipping on some booze and looking at the bored waitresses. Wearing aprons with colorful ribbons and lace dresses, they mostly talked to the bartender and would sometimes disappear into the kitchen. They had almost nothing to do at the moment. Currently, besides their group, there were about ten more visitors in total in the entire tavern.

“What a strange place,” Hadjar replied, going back to watching the square. There were only a few more people there than inside the tavern itself: some street vendors, the occasional young people idly strolling by, musicians, and the rare citizens going about their business. “Very strange.”

“It is,” Abraham agreed. “At first glance, you can almost forget that all of them would be considered Great Heroes in our homelands.”

“Or even Emperors,” Itia added philosophically.

Four of them were currently sitting at the table. Guy had gone on his mission, and Gustaf was covering him. Abraham was using an artifact that could get through Techniques and spells that cut off people within them from the rest of the world. It clearly belonged in the toolbox of thieves and smugglers. And, of course, Albadurt had immediately pointed this fact out while chewing on another apple.

“You’re right,” Hadjar breathed out.

For example, the musicians, who were merrily strumming on their Ron’Jahs and rhythmically beating their drums, ranged from the peak-stage Spirit Knight level to the advanced-stage Lord level. Moreover, each of them possessed a body no weaker than a Heaven level artifact, which was the highest level of body cultivation in the Empires. Hadjar himself, despite all the insane things that flowed through his veins, only possessed a body at the same level.

“But I like it here,” Abraham continued, “It isn’t crowded and-”

“It’s boring.” Itia helped him find the right words. “I expected more excitement from the Strange Lands.”

She was right about that. In the less than two months that they’d been here, except for that one clash with some bandits and coming across a couple of wandering monsters in the forest, they hadn’t encountered any true danger. It almost seemed like the surrounding world had completely fallen asleep.

Such a sharp contrast to the eternally dangerous, unceasingly chaotic outside world was a little shocking and even unsettling. The Strange Lands didn’t look at all like the ordinary people imagined them to be. No children were burned alive here, nor were any legendary monsters stalking the roads, snacking on entire villages and cities along the way.

Suddenly, Abraham, interrupting his musings, leaned forward a little and even set his booze aside, which was absolutely unusual for him.

“It seems like something interesting is about to happen.”

Alba-udun stopped munching on his apple. Everyone turned to the window. Near the fountain that had a monument to a man with a potter’s wheel, their friend Guy was standing. Even Hadjar, who was quite good at spotting oddities and things that stood out, couldn’t identify him. From his appearance, all the way to his habits and aura, Guy was an exact copy of the free merchant Alf, whose ashes were currently floating somewhere in the whirlwinds of the eastern winds.

A middle-aged man approached him. On his back were eight simple shortswords that rested in a strange, wheel-like scabbard. The blades’ handles were wrapped in bloody bandages.

The mercenary, named Glets the Grumpy, who’d just come from the city of Khlesten, was short, thin, covered in scars, and wearing light leather armor. Hadjar couldn’t believe his eyes — it was actually a high-quality Imperial level artifact. It clearly had several magical properties.

“You’re late, Glets,” Alf’s voice sounded from a small clay jug standing in the center of their table, which would probably not arouse suspicion.

“Not everyone has the carefree life you do, Alf. Have you brought what I need?”

“I have.”

Hadjar once again praised Gustaf in his heart, as he was luring Glets into a trap, but the mercenary didn’t even sense it at all.

“Where is it?” Glets asked.

“My comrades have it,” Guy-Alf jerked his head in the direction of the tavern. “I’m not enough of a fool to believe that you’ll let me live after I give it to you.”

A blade flashed between them.

“And I’m sure they’re listening to us right now, aren’t they?” Glets whispered hotly. “Well, let’s meet at the edge of the city, at the stone of the Suffering God, in three hours. You better not be late. My commander’s patience isn’t unlimited.”

Guy and Glets were suddenly enveloped in a dark veil of energy. It elicited some surprised exclamations from the surrounding people, but when it disappeared along with the two cultivators, everyone went back to minding their own business.

“Well,” Abraham put the jug back into his spatial artifact with a wave of his hand. “It would seem that things have gone a bit awry…”