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

there, on the horizon, there’s a huge dragon that devoured the brave and desperate travelers. Others argued that there was where a rift split the sea. But these legends were all debunked when the age of ships and ocean-loving travelers came about. Still, they remained stories for the young and the drunk.

In today’s day and age, all knew that what beyond the horizon lay... nothing, if only simply because no matter how far you traveled you could never reach the edge of the world and this very horizon. However, even if the inhabitants of the nameless planet knew that such a thing as the edge of the world didn’t exist, they still experienced a kind of a superstitious, sacred awe before the Eastern Boarder.

And it was here, among the labyrinth of snow and stone, on a plateau lost in time, that a monastery, forgotten even by the bards, existed. The last refuge of the people from the last era who had left a big mark on culture and art.

Once, when huge volcanoes had not yet woken up, making the sky blaze with the fire kindled by the rage of the elements that boiled in their depths, the fourteenth human kingdom existed. Girtai was the country of great warriors, sages, dancers, tea, and porcelain. But all that remained of its beautiful meadows and valleys was the monastery on the Mount Mok-Pu, under the arches of which lived the last representatives of Girtai’s people, and whose history was more ancient than anybody else’s.

Within the monastery’s walls, made of red and gray stone, woke up the only outsider who had ever set foot on the lands hidden from the lands of mere mortals.

Ash tossed aside the strange woolen blanket that he had been covered with. He was surprised to find that he wasn’t covered in bandages and that the scar from his chest was gone. He remembered that he had been stabbed with a dagger. Something like that should’ve left a mark but... there was none. There wasn’t even a thin whitish scar, which even the most powerful spells of the most skilled healers often left behind.

Shaking his head, Ash looked around. He was lying on a bed that was only slightly raised above the floor, covered with many cloths and mats.

There were no guards in the corners of his room, no bars on the round window with wooden shutters and red silk fluttering in the cold wind. Shivering, Ash watched in amazement the dance of the snowflakes that flew into his bedchambers.

“Curious,” he muttered, holding out his hand and admiring how the white crystals melted as soon as they touched his warm skin. Widening his eyes slightly, he realized the meaning of the word “curiosity.” But even so, he didn’t dwell to long on it, being more interested in where he was and how he had got here.

As he sat up, he was surprised to find an equally curious set of clothes stacked on a very low stool that looked more like a footstool than a chair without a backrest. Lifting the clothes, he found no pants or shirt, only a length of cloth of yellow and purple silk over which he was to put an equally unusual red robe that covered his entire body.

After a couple of minutes of struggling and trial and error, he finally managed to put on his new clothes. Holding on to the wall, he made his way to the door. He expected it to be locked, so he was surprised to see them swing open with a light push. The cold wind caressed his face but it didn’t make him shiver. His clothes might’ve been simple but they kept him very warm.

Outside, he saw things that made him doubt that he had been locked up in some fortress. Walking between the columns, which represented strange statues with distorted faces, he kept his eyes on the amazing buildings that surrounded him.

He had always believed that a house could only have one roof, but this place seemed determined to prove him wrong. These buildings had three, four, or even thatched roofs. Their clay, lightly dusted with snow, glittered in the winter sun.

Around him were similar buildings, but in the center of the one he was currently standing in was a stately yet seemingly simple complex consisting of a low wall, a spacious courtyard, and what Ash would call a temple.

As soon as he passed under the archway, he froze in bewilderment once again. Gathered in the yard were about thirty clean-shaven children between the ages of six and sixteen. All of them were balancing on tall, thin poles.

Frozen in the most ridiculous and at the same time visibly complex poses, they kept changing their positions, stretching all of their muscles and limbs. Climbing the pole seemed easy, even he could do that, but he doubted that he’d be able to assume the simplest of the poses and hold it for longer than a second.

He walked between the rows of poles, looking at the students who seemed too engrossed in their training to pay attention to him. There was only one pair of eyes on him — that of the instructor who, with the help of a stick, kept adjusting his student’s arms and legs, or hitting the ground thereby announcing the shift in poses. Ash saw no trace of interest in his black eyes.

Aware that he should still be courteous, the instructor nodded and greeted him by placing his clenched right fist into the open palm of his left. Raising his arms so that they were in line with his chest, he bowed slightly. Ash’s clumsy attempt at repeating the greeting drew a giggle from one of the students. They were promptly punished with a blow to the pole they were standing on.

Leaving them to their training, Ash entered the main building. Pushing open the heavy doors studded with iron