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

“Yes, mistress?”

“Didn’t I tell you that I’d drown you in the cesspool if you call me that again?”

“You said that two days ago.”

“Two days ago...” Gwel repeated. “She never came for the potion...”

Her milky gaze became blurrier. She was almost completely blind.

“Take it,” she said and pointed at her staff, “it’ll serve you well as long as it can. Now, get ready.”

“For what?”

“The Queen has made her first move. The game has begun.” Gwel chuckled and picked up the knife. “Don’t be angry with me for having treated you like this. I can’t do much else.”

“I’m not angry.”

“I know,” Gwel said. “That isn’t good... How can you feel joy without resentment? Little boy,” she said hoarsely as if she was trying not to swear. “You’ll soon know, too.” She hoped that she had done well and raised a wizard and not a monster.

Ash felt something. He smelled iron and tested copper. He then heard the distant croak of a hungry crow.

None of this was happening in reality, but the feeling remained.

“Did you feel it?” Gwel asked. “I see that you did. Good, I didn’t waste my time for nothing. Goodbye now, you demonic fiend. Get yourself a succubus or a tramp, so that your manhood withers and inhuman heart rots.”

Green teeth flashed in what looked like a smile and the young man in his late twenties burst into the house. His gray eyes were burning with rage and hard-working hands gripping the worn-out shaft of his trusty pitchfork.

“Witch!” he shouted, spitting saliva. “You wanted to kill my child!”

“You idiot, it was your wife who wanted it dead!” Gwel laughed.

“I’ll kill you!”

Ash said nothing, just stood there and watched as Gwel made the knives come to life and fly into the air. But before she could do anything else, the villager ran over to her and sunk the pitchfork into her chest, piercing the hardened heart that didn’t have the time to soften over the eight years spent living in the forest.

Silver locks fell over the old woman’s shoulders, free of the black scarf that had been keeping them in place, revealing the slave’s mark on Gwel’s forehead that glimmered in the firelight.

There was no mistress more adamant and merciless to her servants than Fate, the queen of the Gods themselves.

“Freak,” the villager spat, pulling out the pitchfork. Knives fell on the floor with a loud latter. Ash stood frozen, staring at the corpse sprawled before him. He was certain that he should feel something... A sharp pain in his chest or a lump in his throat, but he simply didn’t care. He didn’t know the difference between life and death.

“And you must be her homunculus,” the villager said and pointed his pitchfork at Ash. “I’ll be given a lot of coin for the head of a bastard like you.”

Flames danced in the reflection of the dirty steel of the pitchfork. Staring at it, Ash felt a cold hand on his throat.

Death was ready to claim him.

Ash raised the staff that Gwel had given him, ready to defend himself. He still didn’t understand the difference between life and death, but he wasn’t quite ready to go meet the Gods. He hadn’t learned a single word yet, which meant that he’d be unable to listen and follow their others, something he couldn’t allow himself to do as that had been all that he had ever done. That was the only thing he understood.

“Different colored eyes,” the farmer said, laughing at Ash’s pathetic attempt to defend himself. “Damn freak.”

Coming from the farmer, being called a freak sounded like an insult. There was a difference when one spoke without malice and when one spoke with the intent to kill.

Ash stared at the flames reflected in the steel and felt heat fill his limbs. Just like the brew boiled stronger, heated by the fire, so did his heart pound faster, fueled by anger. And just as he thought he’d burn from the inside, he heard the word.

It was like nothing else in the world. Not a single audible sound, not any language spoken by either mortals or immortals sounded like it. Because this word was contained the pure essence of fire. Its flames both devoured endless forests and warmed lone travelers in the cold nights.

Ash welcomed the fire and allowed it to fill him to the brim. Its flames licked its skin, and whispered the word to him. Closing his eyes, he listened and then repeated.

Bloodcurdling screams filled the air, scaring off the birds that had nestled on the trees outside the house. They spoke amongst themselves about a young wizard who had learned the fire’s name.

And anyone who knew how to listen to the birds became aware that the winds of change were about to sweep over their nameless world.

Chapter 4

322 A.D. Age of the Drunken Monk, Middle Kingdom

I rmaril shone brightly that night, illuminating the unnamed planet, and providing gentle and affectionate (sometimes fierce and merciless) light to the billions of its inhabitants. Some of them dwelled in cities surrounded by high walls, others in villages, while some preferred the dusty roads and cheap taverns over a comfy bed free of bedbugs and a roof over their head. There were also those who lived in caves, huts by the lake, in the lakes themselves, in the sky, in the fiery embrace of the volcano, at the bottom of the ocean, in the forests, on top of pine needles, in the buds of flowers, and even in the wind itself.

But more about them later.

The wind of change had brought the young Ash to the Middle Kingdom, a great land ruled by the wise Garangan and his wife Alessia. Everything from the Rose Sea to the Forests of Armund, which included four cities, half