Ash. The Legends of the Nameless World. Progression Gamelit Story Kirill Klevanski (reading books for 6 year olds .TXT) 📖

Lari still couldn’t forgive him for what he had done. Despite the fact that Ash had started to grow on him, he still considered the mage a charlatan unable to pull a rabbit out of a hat, let alone use a spell as complex as this one.

Ash watched him out of the corner of his eye, remembering the Archmage’s lessons. The old man had taught him well, telling him about the secrets of magic. He liked to say that this art was a very complicated and confusing thing. Then again, that was how it was meant to be. As he explained it, magic was divided into two forms, both of which Ash was already familiar with: Words and spells.

The latter were available to any mage, be they a master who knew the secrets of the oldest scrolls, or novices, who had nothing more than a spark of magic in them. In their essence, spells were just a string of specific Words. This was why a mage’s worth was determined not by the type but by the number of Words they knew.

According to rumors, the most esteemed of mages could come up with about a hundred and twenty spell combinations, and the notorious Ash, about six hundred. Of course, not all spells were as simple as, say, levitation. Some of them required knowledge of many obscure Words as well as control over them. After all, it wasn’t enough to just say the Words, you also needed to put energy into them. However, more on that later.

The Archmage, who liked to keep everything orderly, used to repeat the following: “In this world, there are several types of spells: ‘ordinary’ – available even to novices, ‘complex’ – only for experienced mages, ‘serious’ – for those who had begun to look deeper into the workings of magic, and ‘great.’ ”

These ‘great’ spells were often tales of bards and drunken babblers, but it was rumored that some mages were able to use them by combining more than three dozen Words and using an incredible amount of energy. The Circle of the Elements, being a great spell, according to reliable information, combined thirty-six Words.

There was only one person in the Stumps who decided to count the number of Words Ash had used for his spell. By the time the red dome appeared above the clearing, the mage had already used twice the number he had claimed to know back in the tavern. Ash had used more than a hundred words in less than a month and a half of their campaign – an astonishing, almost impossible number. There were no more than a thousand magicians in the world who could boast of such knowledge.

“Tul,” Mary called.

The hunter nodded and walked over to the edge of the circle. However, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t break through the barrier. He then nodded and went back to his sleeping bag – they had decided not to put up tents.

“Good job, Ash,” Mary smiled, smacking the dazed young man on the shoulder.

As far as he recalled, this was the first time that she had ever complimented him. His joy knew no bounds. Perhaps that was why he began to tug on the edge of Alice’s cloak, asking her to share a sleeping bag with him. Lari turned red with anger, but the young girl only laughed, not taking Ash seriously. He responded with a smile and a laugh, saying that he was only kidding.

“All of you, to bed!” Mary ordered loudly. She was sure there was no way that anyone or anything would come through that barrier. “We get up at the crack of dawn!”

The Stumps nodded and crawled into their bags, putting their weapons and armor next to them, just in case. The barrier was good, there was no denying it, but a little caution couldn’t hurt. Alice, noticing that Ash wasn’t sleeping, but smoking a pipe, crept up to him and wished him a good night.

“Good night to you, too.” He nodded thoughtfully.

Thinking that she was being ignored, Alice snorted resentfully and turned back. Burying her nose into the warm, cozy wool, she continued to watch with interest as Ash made the smoke take different shapes. Sometimes, they were ships floating over the grass, sometimes birds circling their heads, but more often than not, they were flowers playing in the thickets.

Ash smoked his favorite tobacco from the southern plantations, listening to the nighttime song of cicadas and crickets. In this world of eternal gloom, the melody might’ve seemed out of place, but still they sang. During his stay in the mountain, he missed these musical crackles and creaks.

Now, eight years after leaving the monastery, he couldn’t forget the evening and morning gong that announced the rise and set of Irmaril.

Ash smiled at the memory, but didn’t dare lie down. Tonight, there would be an eclipse. Night would fall over the thirteen kingdoms, during which neither Myristal nor the moon would shine in the sky. During these nine hours of darkness, the most terrible creatures and monsters would come to visit their world with Helmer, the Lord of Nightmares, marching proudly at the head of this terrible parade.

Helmer was an ancient demon who couldn’t be defeated even through the combined efforts of the ten Wandered Guilds. According to legend, the First Master had managed to seal a piece of the demon’s power in an artifact, which he was forced to constantly carry with him.

Minutes passed, followed by hours. At one point, Ash put the pipe away and let out a sigh of relief. Perhaps the fairies had made a mistake and Helmer wasn’t really going after them, but somewhere on his own, demonic business.

Unfortunately, this was not the case.

Ash, before he even realized what had happened, gasped, feeling the weight