Strongest Among the Heavens
Chapter 387: Cultivating Listeners

Chapter 387: Cultivating Listeners

The listeners he cultivated were quite impressive.

One was Fuzan, Princess Liuying’s personal treasurer for the Underground. The treasure’s regal posture never wavered even as her sharp eyes fixed on him.

Another was Archelaus, a demi-god said to be one of the fifty sons Orion fathered from sleeping with fifty nymphs. The demigod had taken up a place near the edge of the gathering, his eyes always flicking and his smile never leaving him yet never approaching anyone of importance.

It was the red-haired man standing quietly near the entrance who caught Dasha’s attention the most. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with pale skin and wild red hair that marked him immediately as a foreigner. His clothes were simple, a worn kilt and tunic, but his eyes glowed with the unmistakable power of a Sorcerer. Yes, with Qi Sense, he could lightly tell and with music serving as a distraction, he was able to do it without getting caught. The red Sorcerer leaned against the stone wall, his arms crossed over his chest, watching Dasha intently with a wry smile playing at the corners of his lips.

When Dasha finished his song, the last note lingering in the air like a whispered secret, the room erupted into quiet applause. Archelaus raised his goblet in acknowledgment and Dasha inclined his head slightly in response. He kept the lyre close to him and took deep breaths.

The red-haired sorcerer made his way over and stopped just short of Dasha, of Myth the musician.

"Well now," the red Sorcerer greetd, rich with a thick Scottish brogue, "that was a fine performance. Not often ye find a lyre player who knows his craft so well."

Myth’s black opera mask concealed the emotion in his eyes. "Thank you," he said quietly. "It’s a new instrument to me. I’m still learning its intricacies."

The sorcerer chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. "Aye, could’ve fooled me. The name’s Alastair. Alastair MacGowan. And ye are...?"

"Myth," came the simple reply. No titles, no further explanation. Just his name, as inscrutable as ever.

Alastair raised an eyebrow, then nodded as if satisfied. "Aye, Myth it is, then. Tell me, lad—are ye familiar with the art of flyting?"

"I’ve heard of it. A Scottish tradition, if I’m not mistaken. A battle of wits and words, is it not?"

"Aye, ye’ve got it right." Alastair’s grin widened. "A good flyte can be as fierce as any sword fight. Humiliate your opponent with insults and clever wordplay until they’re left stammering like a fool."

Dasha regarded the Scottish Sorcerer. "And you wish to challenge me to such a battle?"

Alastair’s grin never wavered. "If ye’ve got the stones for it, aye."

There was a pause as Dasha considered the offer, then he gave a slight nod. "Very well. I accept your challenge."

The surrounding demi-gods and guests, hearing the exchange, turned their attention fully to the two men. Archelaus, Fuzan, whoever.

Alastair uncrossed his arms. With a two-finger flick, a chair manifested underneath him.

’A Sorcerer indeed.’

"Let’s see what ye’ve got, lad. I’ll go easy on ye, for now."

Alastair began his flyting, his voice loud and confident as he hurled his first volley of insults.

"Ye stand there in silence, hidin’ behind yer mask,

But everyone here knows ye’re just a pale shadow, a task,

A man with no face, no guts and no pride,

Cowerin’ in darkness where cowards reside."

The room chuckled softly at Alastair’s opening and were eager to hear Dasha’s response. Dasha remained still for a moment. Then, in a voice as calm and smooth as ever, he responded.

"You speak of my mask, as if that is all you see,

Can you not see, red one? Or are you willingly not seeing?

I am the myth of music, of joy and repeat,

Your words, however, are as hollow as the man you claim to be.

For behind every insult, there’s fear in your heart,

You fight with your tongue, but lack the spirit, the mind.

You fight with fake resolve that even a demon could not hide."

The room stilled for a moment, and there were a few gasps of appreciation from the audience. Alastair’s grin widened, relishing the challenge.

"Ah, ye’ve got some bite in ye, I’ll give ye that." Alastair launched into his next verse with even more fire in his voice.

"Ye hide behind riddles, think ye’re so wise,

Masks and words, don’t you have a hide?

Everyone here can see through yer disguise.

Ye’re nothin’ but a puppet, dancin’ on strings,

While I’m the storm that every man brings.

A sorcerer of red and of transmutation, the best of the best."

There it was. Transmutation. See, since the very start of his arrival, he knew he required a Sorcerer. He walked amongst these people, he listened, and so, he planned out the Black Wolf incident and Wang Lun’s participation. He also spied and gained information on this man.

Yes, one half of the reason why Dasha came here specifically was for this red Scottish Sorcerer, Aliastair. He spoke. He did favours. He was...easily manipulated. The songs Dasha played were chosen to bring him in, to get his music senses tingling.

This little battle of music was as important as any fist-to-fist battle. He played his harp once.

"A storm, you say? More like a breeze,

A gust of hot air, bringing no one to their knees.

For all your bravado, you’re just full of sound,

But I’ve yet to see you stand on solid ground."

There was a ripple of laughter through the room now, and Alastair’s expression shifted slightly, from playfulness to something darker.

"I’ve fought with demons, danced with death,

And yer nothin’ but a challenge that’ll take one breath.

I’ve seen kings fall and mountains rise,

And I’ll leave ye broken, before ye even realize."

Dasha remained silent for a moment after Alastair finished, the room hanging on his every word. Then, in a tone as smooth and steady as ever, he delivered his final blow.

"You speak of kings and mountains tall,

But you’ll never rise, for you are too small.

You claim you’ve fought, but I’ve seen no scars,

Just a loud, empty man, hiding behind bars."

The room erupted in applause and cheers at Dasha’s words. Alastair scoffed. "That was my—"

"Not your victory." The audience cackled and yelled. Alastair scoffed again while Archelaus, a bigger and stronger man, came up to slap the red Sorcerer on the back. The demi-god unoffically decreed this as Alastair’s loss.

Myth did not gloat or revel in his victory. He simply remained as he was, calm and composed, as if the flyt had been nothing more than a passing distraction.

Alastair clicked his tongue. "Ye’re sharper than ye look, Myth. I’ll give ye that."

Dasha acknowledged him with a nod of respect. "You were incredibly as will, Sorcerer. Please do come anytime."

"One favour." Alastair raised a finger. "For my loss, I shall bestow one favour."

"Thank you," Myth said. "For now, I wish to play."

"Then please, play."

The red Sorcerer sat nearby, smiling, and the people of the room returned to its usual hum of conversation and this time, they got closer. The voices were spoken more openly. Simply participating in Flyt, in seeming vulnerable and one with them, opened a key in their hearts. Dasha gripped his lyre tighter, his fingers settling on the strings. He had proven himself, not with force or fire, but with passion and intellect.

And intellect, as always, was how Dasha preferred to operate.