Ash. The Legends of the Nameless World. Progression Gamelit Story by Kirill Klevanski (essential reading .txt) 📗

tore the petals from the bud, sending them fluttering over the cliff, but no matter how much it blew, there seemed to be no end to the torrent of white. They seemed to divide into myriads of drops, shrouding the snowy expanses. and as the petals danced along with the snowflakes, the wasteland was transformed, shimmering like a mirage in the desert.

First came the towering spires, covered with glittering ice crystals that trapped rainbows and sunbeams. Behind them, they saw black marble — a fabulous material, the secret of making which was lost a couple of eras ago.

Black marble, like the darkness itself, enveloped the ancient abode of mages, drawing in not only the ribbons of light lost in this snowy desert, but also the views of the Stumps. It was so difficult to tear their gazes off the walls that they didn’t immediately notice the exquisite stained-glass windows, which would forever capture the epic scenes of the exploits of the lost order; statues of lovely nymphs in dresses made of ice; ever-green trees, imprisoned in transparent towers of snow; and beautiful flowers, now resembling crafts made of colored glass.

It was all so beautiful and terrifying at the same time that they had no idea what was going on. Bewildered, they were no longer surprised by the way the dancing petals had woven a crystal bridge in front of them. One end of it lay at Mary’s feet, who was still clutching the wide bud. The other end materialized right at the gates of Graven’Dor. The bridge seemed to invite the travelers to rush headlong into a new adventure, but the Stumps were still too shocked to move even a finger, let alone a leg.

When Ash had asked Ar’Valon to break the illusion that hid the castle, he expected to see something like this. In the old scrolls he had read at Mok-Pu, he had often seen sketches of the castle when it belonged to the Order of the Fallen King.

The mage tightened the grip on his staff and led the way. He wasn’t sure that he could fight this ice queen on equal terms on her home terrain and within her own home. Ice, like water, wasn’t the best of friends with fire.

But still, Ash hoped. He hoped that once they leave this wasteland behind, he wouldn’t wake up at night stricken with regret over having done nothing, but that he had tried, albeit in vain. All he could do was try.

“Where are you going?”

Blackbeard’s heavy hand rested on Ash’s shoulder. Soon, the stocky man, clad in plate armor, marched in front of him. Ash smiled a little. Devil only knew what awaited them inside the castle, but at least he wasn’t alone. This time, he’d meet danger shoulder to shoulder with the brave souls of the Wandering Stumps. Marching ahead of him, no one noticed how his staff glew slightly.

And while our heroes walk over the bridge to the ancient stronghold of magic, we should take a look into the past. After all, to understand why this story’s end is the way it is, we must first understand what had been.

Chapter 52

Long ago, the Easter Territory

A sh concentrated and whispered a Word. A piece of rock lying on his lap shuddered and trembled. Soon, a miniature stone pony appeared, just over an inch at the withers. The animal, created by magic and will, shook its head and opened its eyes wide, exploring the world around it. Ash, who could speak to the stones, knew what they saw. Well, “see” isn’t quite the right word to describe the feelings of a stone, if it could have feelings at all. Yet, they heard, saw, and felt.

Time for a human being was like a stormy stream; the further you swam along it, the faster its waters and the stronger the current were. For a stone, time was a placid lake — boundless and bottomless. For a stone, there was no “now,” no “later,” no “yesterday,” no “tomorrow.” Stone didn’t feel like people. It knew no sorrow, no joy, no suffering, no dreams. For it, feelings were like lightning in a particularly quiet thunderstorm — only a rare flash against the background of a misty sky.

With a Word, Ash subdued the serene lake. He tore the firmament apart, laying a channel for the waters of time. Magic whirled the winds and raised the rapids, speeding up the current and making it faster than thought. Ash put a heart in the stone’s chest, hot as a spark that flickered over a fire; free as an eagle soaring among the mountains, and strong as a lioness on the prowl. And all this was only a small part of the Word that made a miniature pony out of stone. So small that its sound you wouldn’t have heard even if you had ears so sensitive that the whisper of a newborn would seem like thunder.

That’s what it means to be a Master of a Thousand Words. This was what it meant to subdue the very essence of the universe. That was what it meant to—

“Mediocre!” Hu-Chin, who was in the form of a winged tiger, snapped.

His roar caused the pony to shudder and turn back into a stone. Ash blinked and the dragon appeared in the form of a huge ape. Less than a heartbeat later, a handsome man stood in front of him, looking as if he had stepped out of a picture of some famous artist.

When Hu-Chin was angry, he’d begin to subconsciously change his appearance. Ash once dared to point out this to the dragon, for which he was punished so severely that if the Dark Gods locked in the Sherkan prison had seen it, they would’ve howled with compassion and wept bloody tears.

Ash bowed his head as usual and put his hands on the cold floor of the cave.

“How many