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

“Guys...”

“What now, Ash?!” Mary barked.

“Woah, woah...” The mage raised his hands and hid behind the back of the chair. “You’re scary when you’re mad...”

“Come here...”

Ash peeked from behind his shelter and took his staff.

“Listen... There are only two armed people in this room.”

The group exchanged glances. Ash had a point, only he and Alice had weapons while everyone else had empty scabbards. Hunting down a beast like this one without weapons would be suicidal.

“No,” Blackbeard protested.

Ash just smiled and pointed at himself.

“Alone?!” they shouted.

Ash pouted, pretending to be offended. Did they really think that he couldn’t handle one overgrown dog on his own?

“Listen, Alice is wonderful, but healers aren’t good fighters. Us mages, however...”

“Mages, yes... But no one knows what you’re up to...”

“Let me guess... Gonna steal some rum?” Lari sneered.

Ash just smiled, scratching his head.

“Predictable.”

“Oh, no!” the mage wailed, clutching at his chest. “I’ve become predictable.”

Snickering to himself, Ash picked up his staff and walked to the door.

“Where are you going?” Mary asked.

“To destroy evil and save the princess!”

“Ash...”

***

Slamming the door behind him, Ash touched the lock with his staff. Fiery petals emerged from the wood, securing the door firmly. Enchantments weren’t his specialty (nor were they of any other mage to be honest) but there was no one in the castle capable of breaking a seal made by a Master.

To get that title, a Ternite had to do a number of things. For example, get a nickname, kill several monsters, master five different magical forms, and perform a feat worthy of the respect of the other Masters. Well, shock the world more like it. Ash had managed to single-handedly defeat a dragon, but that was a whole other story.

The castle was shrouded in silence. The deathly, deafening kind that could be found only in crypts, long forgotten by the living. Ash shifted his staff as he walked, stepping carefully over the stonework, trying to make no sounds.

Shadows danced on the walls, cast by moonlight seeping through the elaborate stained-glass windows. The silvery light of the full moon would darken the moment it’d pass through the clouds or the glass, making everything look gloomier and eerier than it actually was.

Ash swallowed. At times like these, he missed not knowing what fear was. When things were much simpler and when hearing battle chants didn’t make the left side of his chest ache. But all must come to an end, and so when Ash learned how to feel joy and sadness, he forgot how to be fearless. Terror settled in his heart and never left.

A floorboard creaked. Ash turned around, fire dancing on the tip of his staff, but there was no one behind him, only shadows making faces on the ancient tapestries.

There was a bright flash outside — a storm had begun. Heavy drops fell on the windowsill. Thunder rang out somewhere in the distance. In the pale moonlight, it sometimes seemed to him that the empty armors were turning their heads after him. Tables became animals in waiting, ready to pounce at him, and banners tentacles of some creature just waiting to snatch him into the depths of the castle.

Ash kept walking. The stained glass quivered from the loud thunder. Wind played with tapestries and curtains. His feet felt cold and there were clouds of steam coming out of his mouth. The cold had to be magical as they were in the middle of the summer season. Sweat trickled down his forehead. He felt like his heart would burst out of his chest.

A howl came from the darkness, making him crouch and grip his staff tighter. Minutes passed, but nothing emerged from the hallways or from around the corner. It was just the wind whistling through the cracks, wailing like a disturbed soul.

Sometimes, he’d swear that he’d hear the rattling of chains or even growls, but he kept convincing himself that it was nothing more than the storm raging outside coupled with his wild imagination.

But then came a laugh.

“First Form: Incarnation!”

A fireball lit up the darkened corridor and Ash let out a sigh of relief. It wasn’t a laugh, but the wind playing with the visor of a helmet. Forcing a smile, he continued forward. Nearing a staircase, he swallowed hard.

His intuition was telling him to go lower, but the wide and spacious halls were the perfect hiding space for a giant monster. Ash had fought many a beast in his life, from dragons to the undead, but there was something about shifters that just made his skin crawl.

Watching his step, Ash descended the stairs, observing the paintings on the walls that seemed to be whispering to one another. As if alive, they laughed at the foolishness of the man who had decided to measure his strength against that of a devil’s spawn. They didn’t know that they were laughing at a great mage, but Ash did. And he’d never forget it.

Once downstairs, he looked out into the hall.

It was empty save for the wind and the darkness that continued their macabre dance of whispers and shadows. Leaning on his staff, Ash walked toward the locked doors. When only a couple of steps separated him from his goal, a flash of lightning filled the room.

“Come,” uttered a female voice.

Ash gripped the handle. Turning it with a creak, he longed for the days when he didn’t know what fear was.

Chapter 22

1st of Eral, 318 A.D., Kingdom of Arabist

T he general raised his hand clutched in a fist. The soldiers froze, waiting for orders. Each of them had what Racker called “druid’s gear”: armor made of wood and ropes, pitchforks instead of spears, axes instead of swords, and wide planks for shields.

In general, the Seventh Legion looked more like an angry mob than