Ash. The Legends of the Nameless World. Progression Gamelit Story by Kirill Klevanski (ink book reader .txt) 📕

And then he realized.

Unlike him, Racker was easy to understand. If you insulted him or did anything to make him angry, he’d beat the living daylights out of you. Or kill you. Either way, one knew what to expect.

But with Ash… Ash they feared because he was as unpredictable as the fire he wielded. Him, they didn’t understand. Which is why they feared him

“Men!” Ash shouted at the top of his lungs. His voice, echoing like thunder, attracted everyone’s attention. Even Racker froze. “Get on your knees!”

The men stared at him in confusion, not moving.

Jumping off the platform, Ash marched toward them.

“I! Said! To! Get! On! Your! Knees!” With each shout, he’d tear out the heart of the convict closest to him, turning it into a pile of ash and soot. There were six silent thuds, followed by the sound of almost four thousand men falling to their knees.

“On all fours now!” he snarled. “On! All! Fours! Now!”

Four more fell, burying their faces into the white blanket. The snow creaked silently as four thousand more got down on all fours.

“Now listen to me!” Ash’s voice no longer sounded human. Even Racker, who had done and seen a lot of horrible things, did his best to stay out of Ash’s line of sight. Not a flicker of emotion could be seen on the young man’s face as his hand sank into the chest of another convict. “From now on, you’re no longer humans! Forget your family and your friends! Scum has no family! Scum doesn’t talk unless it’s spoken to! Scum doesn’t move unless allowed! Remember this pose you’re in because it’ll become more comfortable for you than laying down!”

Passing through the rows of prostrated convicts, he’d occasionally pierce one of them with his staff, sending their soul to join its relatives in Heaven.

Or, more likely, in Hell.

Not that he cared much about the difference between the two.

“You!” he barked. “Stand up!”

A boy of about sixteen jumped to his feet. There were many children like him in the legion. Ash didn’t know why, but they were oftentimes worse off than the rest. They’d have more bruises on them with each new day, their eyes were always empty, and their gait very odd. It was like all of them had hemorrhoids or something.

“Why did they put you in jail, scum?”

“I—“

“I told you not to talk unless spoken to!”

The young man joined others on the stained snow.

Turning the boy’s heart into a lump of soot, Ash continued his walk. No one dared move their eyes off the snow, as they struggled to keep their hearts from jumping out of their chests.

“You, get up!”

A man of about forty got to his feet. He was two heads taller than Ash and half as wide in the shoulders.

“Why did they put you in jail, scum?”

The man was silent, staring at his feet. He was like a bear afraid of a fox.

“What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?”

The man remained silent. It was the first time Ash had hit someone. He put all his strength into the strike. Holding his stomach, the man doubled over and coughed, but remained silent. Racker stared at Ash in surprise. He had not expected such a scrawny young man to pack such a punch.

“Still silent, huh?” He sneered and rained blow upon blow on the man, making him curl up in a ball. Silence hung in the air; the man didn’t even dare groan in pain. When Ash got tired of waving his hands, he motioned to the man to get up.

“Stand up.”

Nodding, the man did as he was told. He staggered as he rose to his feet, face swollen and left arm broken. Several teeth were lying scattered in the snow. It was amazing that the man could still stand after the beating he had received. That is, it was amazing to everyone else, but not to Ash. He felt nothing still. He didn’t know if he was supposed to feel anything.

“You can speak, beast. What were you convicted for?”

“I killed a man who tried to steal money from me.”

“As far as I know, that’s not a crime.”

“The local judge didn’t like me, you see,” the man responded, flashing a bloody, wry smile. “As a child, I often broke his nose.”

Ash nodded and kept walking. The man was about to sigh with relief when he cried out in pain. Looking down, he saw Ash’s hand sticking out of his chest, squeezing his still-beating heart.

Shaking off ash and blood from his hand, the young man carried on. He began to feel the same feeling that the Archmage had felt on the day they met one another: fear.

“You! Get up!”

Another convict leaped to his feet. He was a bland-looking man of about twenty-six, with a pointy chin and sharp eyes.

“You’ve my permission to speak, beast. What were you convicted for?”

“Sir, I’m innocent—”

He, too, joined his friends on the snow. Innocent until proven guilty, he heard people say. He wasn’t buying it.

One by one, convicts got up and told their stories only to fall dead the moment they finished them. It made no difference to Ash whether his victims were young men defending their lady’s honor, hardened murderers, thieves, hunters trying to feed their families after years of famine by hunting on the king’s lands, rapists, or unlucky gamblers. He chose at random. They were all the same in his eyes.

No one understood the logic or meaning (if there were any at all) behind the general’s actions. Their ignorance turned into fear with each new corpse, and it wasn’t until twenty of them had lost their lives that the rest finally felt horror grip at their chests.

Ash motioned another convict to get up. Tears in his eyes,