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

filled with air, then screamed in panic when he saw the shadow cast by the giant spirit looming over him. But before another breath could leave him, the serpent hissed, its necks cut off by a pair of scarlet sickles. The crescents, flying over people who were struggling to stay afloat, made a strange, almost melodic sound as they cut through the air.

Contrary to the laws of physics, the serpent’s heads didn’t fall back into the river, but hovered in the air. Ribbons of water emerged from its cut off neck, as if the spirit was searching its heads in order to put itself back together again.

“Take a deep breath!” Ash shouted and pulled the boy under the water.

The little one did as told and dived with the mage. Once again the steel grip of the darkness and the cold, the child didn’t close his eyes so he saw everything that was going on the surface.

Almost a dozen of mages gathered an incredible amount of energy. It roared and raged, ripping bits of canvas from the sail. People covered their eyes with their hands, unable to look at the blue sphere vibrating above the crossed staffs of the mages.

One of the dozen, moving his tongue and lips with difficulty, uttered the magic words, and the sphere began to change. It expanded and elongated until it finally took the shape of dog’s mouth. There was thunder, the brightest flash of which blinded even through the closed eyes, and the dog’s head snapped at the spirit devoid of the river’s power.

The serpent, screeching and snarling, turned into steam. No one present would ever be able to tell whether they had heard the howl of the Thunder Hound or whether their imagination played a trick on them. But what everyone was sure of was that a powerful spell destroyed the giant serpent. But not everyone knew what’d follow.

Ash was among the few ones that did.

When the wizard resurfaced, he felt fear rising in his heart in mind, rattling its rusted chains, ready to bind both his mind and soul. And while the people were busy on the ferry, and someone on a raft was getting close to those thrown overboard, Ash was once again pulled into a vortex of memories.

9th Day of the Month of Afir, 312 A.D., Mt. Mok-Pu, The Eastern Territory

Ash ran out into the street and couldn’t hold back a cry of panic. The whole courtyard was ablaze. Here and there, the outlines of the monks and the assassins flashed like ghostly shadows. The ever-blooming tree crackled sadly, ash and sparks dancing around its trunk instead of the petals. The pillars on which the younger students had stood in ridiculous poses earlier that morning were burning. There were arrows, spears, bullets, spells, magic flames, and blood.

A lot of blood.

Ash, who had been through dozen battles, froze in place, unable to move or believe his eyes. The smell of burning wood and flesh, of blood, and of steel filled his nostrils and clouded his mind. The shouts of the dying monks sounded like an alarm bell. And the sky, which used to be blue and so close, had now seemed heavy and close like a coffin lid. Smothered in smoke and stained crimson, it weighed on his shoulders.

A child screamed somewhere, snapping the young mage out of his numbed state. Time began to flow again, and Ash rushed to aid Chen, a cheerful boy, whose shaven head was always filled with the strangest ideas.

Chen struggled with his opponent, whose blood-stained blade was getting alarmingly close to his chest. Like a scorpion’s stinger, it pointed its tip at the boy’s heart, but didn’t dare strike the final blow. Not because of sudden pity, but because the man like to play with his prey. Holding his hand, he mocked the young monk with precise, but weak blows. There was no way that a novice like Chen could harm a man clad in armor. Leather wasn’t that strong of a defense against steel, but the monk was unarmed.

Picking up a stick from the ground, the enraged Ash activated the First Form and a ball of fire swirled at the end of the charred staff. It was very small, about the size of a nut, but that was enough to kill the assassin. He tumbled to the ground, covered with the ashes of the now useless staff. The monastery didn’t have in it position a weapon that could withstand all the fury and power of the young mage.

“Are you okay?” Ash asked, looking at the bruises and cuts on Chen’s body. “Are you hurt?”

“My rib...” the boy croaked. “Maybe a leg...”

“You’ll be okay,” Ash said with glazed eyes. “We’ll fix you right up.”

He looked up, trying to locate the shortest route to the medical win, but he couldn’t find what he was looking for. He could go over the roofs, but there, instead of a small pavilion with two roofs, was a pile of logs, stones, and bloodied bodies.

“Esh!” Chen shouted. “Look out!”

The mage turned around in time to look down the barrel of a rifle. One of the assassins raised his weapon, taking aim at the tall figure. The trigger clicked, the firing pin sang, and the barrel spat out a cloud of fire from which a bullet flew out with a whistle.

Ash automatically summoned the flames, but they didn’t want to answer his call — he didn’t have enough willpower, nor enough fire in him. His thoughts settled, murky and heavy like swamp mud, and his eyes stared helplessly at the bullet flying toward him.

With a cry, Chen leaped from behind Ash’s back and shielded him with his small body, arms outstretched to the sides. There was silence, and then Chen fell to the ground, blood spreading under him. His once-lively brown eyes gazed emptily into the distance.

Ash’s shoulder