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

burned as if it had been pierced with a poker. Chen’s body couldn’t stop the bulled, but it had managed to slow it down and change its trajectory. The mage got away with a shattered shoulder joint. His left arm went limp and he had to grip it to hold it in place

Minstrels would say that Ash, possessed by wrath and anger, produced a fire spell; or that he said a Word, and his opponent crumbled to dust; or that he, driven by instinct, used the knowledge he had gained on the mountain and killed everyone, but all of that would’ve been a lie.

With a heavy heart and an even heavier conscience, and covered in blood of his friends, he stared at the rifle that had taken the life of an innocent child. The gunsliger, laughing, didn’t even draw his blade. He just took another bullet out of his pocket and started to reload his rifle. This was probably where the story of the young general would’ve ended if it hadn’t been for Ling. Even in death he was able to change the course of fate.

From the flames, which replaced the door of the main pavilion, the old abbot’s corpse flew out, a giant hole gaping on his chest. Ash turned his head and saw Racker emerge from the fire. In his right hand, he held Jin-Jing’s head. He held nothing in his left, for it was missing from the elbow up. Racker bared his teeth and threw the head at Ash’s feet. He watched with empty eyes as it rolled on the ground, leaving a scarlet trail behind it.

It was in that moment, when he finally realized that the corpse was that of the old abbot, that he noticed that Ling was clutching in his hand the traitor’s severed arm. Not knowing why, Ash grabbed the wooden ring that fell out of Jin-Jing’s mouth and ran. Yes, the brave general ran like a cowardly dog. Mad with blood, the assassins laughed like hyenas as they watched him flee.

“Find him!” Racker shouted.

Ash ran past the bodies of his brothers and sisters, leaving behind the fire, the screams of the dying and the cries of the wounded. Driven by fear, terror, and his own helplessness, he burst into the only building not yet engulfed in flames. The doors of the Hall of Wisdom swung open, letting in the pale-faced mage.

Distraught, Ash trudged toward the only thing he saw as his salvation at the moment. Holding his aching arm, he limped toward the statue of Liao-Fen, who, lost in his game of chess, payed no attention to the tragedy unfolding outside his home.

Ash was followed into the pavilion by his pursuers. They looked at the hobbling young man as if he was already dead. Wrapped in their cloaks, they played with metal flails, clicking metal on the floor like whips on the back of a lazy donkey.

The mage had almost reached the statue when one of the assassins swung his weapon. The chain whistled through the air and wrapped itself around Ash’s legs. Falling onto the chessboard, Ash reflexively closed his eyes. There was a crash, and the black king chessp iece snapped in half.

Opening his eyes, Ash saw something he didn’t expect to see. Instead of the faces of his pursuers, he was looking down a dark tunnel, the end of which was lost somewhere in the distance. Judging by the faint rays of light that reached the floor of the cave he had found himself in, he was somewhere in the bowls of the mountain, not far from the ridge. How he got there, he had no idea, but he suspected that there had to have been a secret tunnel under the chessboard. Now, how he managed to survive the fall that should have killed him, that he didn’t know.

Searching for a way out, he stumbled upon something he hadn’t expected to see in this strange cave. In the center of the room, where the rays of light crossed, a stick was stuck in the ground. Upon closer inspection, however, the seemingly magical gift turned out to be an ordinary stick.

“It’ll do.” Ash said, blood tricking down his chin. At this point, he was glad to have any weapon.

Walking over, or rather, crawling over, he was about to grab the staff when he experienced a wave of unimaginable pain. Blood seemed to boil in his veins. His eyes felt like they were melting, and his muscles and insides burned like dry wood. The hand holding the staff turned into coals. By some miracle, it remained intact, still holding onto the wood.

The spirit of the staff was so strong that it could’ve, ironically, turned Ash into a pile of ashes. But hardly had the flames got to his heart, when another fire burst forth. This wave was just as powerful and just as hot, but much more violent than the last. It swept over him, overpowered him, swallowed him up, and then entered the staff. It was impossible to see where one fire ended and the other began.

Slowly, but surely, the pain subsided, and the black burn that covered his arm was drawn back into the staff. For the first time in his life, Ash clutched a staff that wasn’t too rough or frail for him. On the contrary, he felt that if he wanted to, he could release all the power of his magic.

Yes, this simple-looking staff could embody any spell without crumbling to dust. Moreover, even if it seemed impossible, Ash had the feeling that the staff made him stronger.

Ash smiled in spite of himself, and a Word escaped his lips that turned out to be the name of an ancient companion of mages. The staff seemed to glow from within, warming the young man and taking away his worries. It accepted its new owner, and its owner accepted it. The newfound