Ash. The Legends of the Nameless World. Progression Gamelit Story, Kirill Klevanski [great reads .TXT] 📗

grab the butter knife and throw it. For most, his movements would’ve been so fast that they’d appear as nothing more than a blur, but the mage saw them as if Lari was moving in slow motion.

The mage knew that he could evade if he wanted to, deflect the knife with the wave of his staff and send it back toward the swordsman. If he wanted to, he could’ve made the swordsman stab himself with the knife in his thigh. He could’ve burned him along with the tavern and everyone in it. He could’ve done anything he wanted.

But what he did was blunt the knife with a Word and let it hit him.

Mary watched as the mage fell off the stool. Lying on the floor, he rubbed his pained chest where a dark bruise was already spreading. Lari grunted in respect, noticing that the blade had been dulled.

“You’re not fast enough,” Mary said. “A good mage would’ve deflected the knife with their staff. However, you’re better than anyone we’ve seen so far and speed is something that can be fixed. Congratulations welcome to the squad! Tomorrow you’ll get the official emblem of the Stray Stumps clan. But since you know my name, I’m sure you know who we are.”

The young man grimaced, looking displeased. Alice rose and touched his chest with her wand, healing the bruise and removing the pain. Although she was young, Alice was a great healer.

“I think we should get some rest. We’ll set off at ten in the morning. Any questions?”

“No!” the rest of the squad said, pleased that they’d finally be leaving this place. However, they’ll have to try their best to be the first to complete the mission, since the king had sent several other squads to deal with the problem.

The mage, still sitting on the floor, laughed to himself. “What else will I have to go through in order to get to you, lieutenant?”

But in order to understand the present, you need to look into the past...

310. A.D. Age of the Drunken Monk, 26th day of Tamir, somewhere on the border of the Middle Kingdom

A group of seven horsemen raced through the forest. One of them was seriously injured ― the expensive black doublet was stained scarlet, and his coat clung to his thigh, sticky with a thick coat of blood that dripped onto the emerald grass. The others, equally well-dressed, were as pale as the first snow. They were clearly terrified of falling into the clutches of their pursuer.

“Will he live?” asked the man with a colorful plume on his hat.

“I doubt it.” His neighbor shook his head. “The wound is too deep. The nearest temple is only a dozen miles away... I fear for his life...”

At that moment, the horses neighed in fear. Some came to a halt, while the others started to back away. The riders tried to calm down their frightened mounts, but all their attempts were in vain. They were scared of something... or someone. But the Monsky Forest was calm, free of any predators more dangerous than bears or wolves. Even the Ternites rarely went there, sure that there was nothing of use to them in the forest.

“Who are you?” a calm voice asked.

To the riders, it seemed as if the voice belonged to the grass swaying under the hooves of their horses. Or from the creaking trees and their luscious crowns. Or perhaps it was the wind itself that was whispering into their ears? Whatever it was, it made the horses neigh even louder and the riders to draw their blades.

“Show yourself!” the one with the plume shouted.

“Hold on, sir!” His neighbor grabbed him by the hand. “I heard that a spirit appeared in the forest and that it is willing to aid those in need. Let me talk to it.”

The man with the plume glanced at his friend and nodded.

“Sir... Erm... Spirit!”

A faint laugh echoed through the forest. “I’m listening.”

“Um, sir Spirit... I, Baron Halsham, humbly ask you to help us. Our friend is seriously injured and dying. I fear that we won’t be able to reach the temple in time.”

For some time, there was nothing but silence, occasionally interrupted by the wounded man’s groans.

“And why should I help you?”

“Because―” the man with the plume started, but didn’t finish.

“Can you really stand to watch an innocent man suffer?” Halsham asked.

“I don’t care about other people’s suffering!” the spirit snapped. The trees creaked threateningly and the wind picked up, tossing small stones and dirt into the air. The horses whinnied in alarm. The riders prepared for battle, but nothing happened.

“However,” the spirit said, calming down, “if you give me something, I might heal your wounded friend.”

“What would you like?”

“The flower that’s sticking out of your bag. I’ve never seen one like it... Give it to me and I’ll help you.”

Halsham looked in confusion at the ordinary buttercup peeking out of his leather bag, wondering if the spirit was trying to joke with them. However, he had no other option.

Taking the flower, Halsham dismounted, took a few steps, and then carefully lowered the flower to the ground. He then went back to his group and waited.

After some time, something unusual happened. The air in front of the riders began to shimmer and a small house appeared among the trees, so small that it’d be better described as a shed than a house. The buttercup lay on the doorstep of the house.

The doors creaked open and a head popped out. A young man with multicolored eyes and ashen hair stared at the tiny yellow flower. By his youthful looks, he couldn’t have been older than eighteen.

“Carry him inside,” he said to the riders and picked up the flower.

The men looked at each other, but no one dared speak a word. Nobody dared