Yulon's Travel Journal (5)

Valyria—Ashes, Whispers, and the Land of Fallen Gods

We had finally arrived at a land that belonged only in nightmares or legends—the Valyrian Peninsula. Even lingering at its edge, the ancient aura of destruction, almost tangible, was enough to make the bravest sailors hold their breath. This was no journey, but a pilgrimage: a dark pilgrimage to apocalypse and power.

As far as the eye could see, everything spoke of an ending. The sky was shrouded in a curtain of eternal ash, and sunlight struggled through it, casting sickly yellow shadows that distorted the passage of time. A thick layer of pale dust covered the earth beneath our feet. Every step sank deep, as though countless dead hands were dragging us down. The glories of the past had long since turned to ruins. Only twisted stone pillars and walls of grotesque crystal pierced the dust, like the weathered bones of ancient behemoths, silently telling of the catastrophe that had torn civilization apart.

And dust and death were not the only things drifting through the air. There were the Stone Demons. These dreadful creations, formed from solidified magma and endless resentment, had no consciousness or purpose—only a pure instinct to destroy all living things. Their very existence was a whisper and warning from the cataclysm that still endured.

Crossing this land required thorough preparation—and the favor of fate. We proceeded with the utmost care, as if walking on thin ice, every breath tinged with sulfur and despair. But I felt no fear. Instead, I felt more... clear-headed than ever before. Here, the pride of civilization and the gods had been utterly torn apart and ground into dust. The land cruelly revealed the ultimate face of power: not only creation, but total, indiscriminate destruction.

We camped far from Valyria. That night, I went alone into the more dangerous depths of Valyria. As I drew near, the Dragon Crystal Compass—the Beacon of Blood and Fire, which I had left with Lysa—began to grow hot. Its needle spun round and round. I thought I heard a voice calling to me.

The Depths of Valyria—Whispers, Dragonglass, and the Weight of Fate

I felt as if I were walking along the very bottom of the world's ashes.

Every footstep vanished into the heavy silence. Each one felt like sacrilege. When I had ventured so deep that even the starlight was utterly swallowed, I suddenly stopped. The Dragon Crystal Compass, long silent in my hand, had grown scorching hot. A faint dark red glow shone between her fingers, as though it had been kindled from within.

It was no longer a tool for finding direction, but a frenzied living thing. Its needle spun wildly, giving off an almost inaudible, high-pitched hum. It defied every known law of geography, stubbornly pointing farther ahead, into deeper darkness. And just then, I heard it—not with my ears, but as a voice echoing directly inside my skull: a low, ancient call, crackling with fire. It repeated a syllable that was not a word, yet its meaning branded itself directly into my mind. It was my name. It was waiting. It was destiny.

We followed the frenzied compass until we stopped in a hollow encircled by a huge, twisted structure of black stone. The magic there was so dense it made my teeth ache, and the ash in the air seemed to dance slowly. At the center of a patch of volcanic glass glowing with an eerie light, it lay still—a Dragon Egg.

Its scaled shell was a deep, inky black, webbed with dark red lines that seemed to flow like molten gold. It was warm to the touch, as if embers that would never die slept within.

Beside it, half-buried in ash, lay a huge, twisted horn.

It was entirely black, made of neither metal nor stone. Ancient Valyrian Runes were carved across its surface, and in the moonlight they flowed as if they were alive. When I reached out and grasped it, a powerful force surged into my arm. At the same time, I almost thought I heard a dragon's roar echoing across the ages.

I stood amid the ruins, the Dragon Egg that could nurture life in my left hand, the horn that could bind power in my right. Destruction and rebirth, creation and control—Valyria had entrusted me with its legacy and its curse alike.

I placed them in the system space, where no one but me could peer inside, and waited for the day I might need them...

Qarth—Golden Eyes, Mists, and the Taste of Power

We had finally reached this fabulously wealthy city that called itself the "center of the world"—Qarth. Even I had to admit it deserved the arrogance. Three immense walls stood like rings cast down by the gods, one inside the other, rising from thirty feet to fifty. Built of sandstone, granite, and finally black marble, each was grander and deadlier than the last. Their carvings depicted scenes of debauchery: men and women coupling, armies clashing, exotic beasts and birds taking flight... It was as if the city had stamped every desire and conflict in the world upon its outer shell. The inner gates, inlaid with golden eyes, silently watched every intruder and sent a chill through me.

Within the city, countless slender towers pierced the heavens, as if climbing a stairway to paradise. Fountains shaped like griffins or dragons poured clean water into every plaza, but the air was thick with the scents of spices and gold, and something deeper: the rusted tang of magic. In name, the royal family ruled from the Palace of a Thousand Rooms. Yet whispers on every street corner told the same truth: real power lay in the hands of the great merchant guilds—the Thirteen Magnates, the Amethyst Brotherhood, and the Spice Guild. Their gold coins wove the city's fate.

And over all of this loomed another shadow: the Warlocks. Their House of Dust, the dreadful building known as the "House of the Undying," swallowed all fools who sought power and revelation. They drank a blue, honey-thick substance called "Nightshade Water."

I took a sip. At first, it was like swallowing rotten meat mixed with ink—utterly disgusting. Then a strange warmth burst open in my chest, like flames coiling around my heart, while my tongue was filled with the bizarre sweetness of honey, anise, and cream... It was dangerous, yet intoxicating, just like Qarth itself.

Here, Lysa's reaction caught my attention more than any fountain or tower. When a member of the Thirteen Magnates and a great spice merchant passed along the avenue, she went rigid. Her fingers clenched so tightly that her nails dug into her palm, but she did not seem to notice as blood seeped between them.

"You're one of mine," I whispered to her, my gaze still sweeping over this city of golden eyes and mist. "If you have a grudge against them, you can tell me."

She remained silent, but that silence was more deafening than any accusation.

I watched the great "milk men" merchants draped in silks and satins, and a thought spread through my mind like Nightshade Water: the Thirteen Magnates were only merchants. They could control a country with gold. What a simple, and yet... tempting, principle.

"If we backed a merchant," I said to Lysa, my voice betraying no hint of jest, "do you think we could have him replace one of them?" This city taught me one thing: real power did not always need to wield a sword. Sometimes, all it needed was to sit atop a big enough pile of gold and smile—and it could buy everything.

"That would benefit you," I added, looking at her pale face. "And me as well."

I told Lysa, "Use your intelligence and think of a way to take control of this city. I'll absolutely be your investor, because I'm sure this deal will be worth it!"

Even the Red Viper nodded in agreement. "If it comes to that, I'd be willing to invest too."

Yeen and the Summer Isles—Rainforest Whispers and Island Songs

At the edge of the sea chart, the shipping route twisted. It suddenly veered south, boldly piercing into a hazy region marked with legends, fantasies, and warnings of skulls.

If fate still had even a trace of madness in its favor, we might become the first lunatics—or fools—in centuries to sail toward the cursed shores of Sothoryos.

I stood on the sterncastle, but not even the salty wind could blow away the image of that dense green hell from my mind. My gaze seemed to pierce the horizon and see the tropical rainforest greedily devouring time and civilization. The ancient towers of Yeen crouched in an eternal swamp, their shattered megaliths tightly bound by python-like vines, like the bones of a strangled giant. Deeper within, only the legendary, inhumanly carved stone circles of Yeen remained, silent amid the rolling miasma as they guarded secrets long forgotten. There, the hot, humid air itself was poison, fever lurked like a shadow, and the natives, their skin painted in mottled colors, greeted us with poisoned blowdarts and icy silence.

They saw us as invaders—and I had to admit they were absolutely right, and acted accordingly. This was no land awaiting exploration, but a graveyard waiting to bury us. Make it a place of fear, and no one would dare invade it.

The deadly reality of this danger was confirmed in blood by the fate of two foolish mercenaries. They spotted a girl washing clothes naked on the shore, and the most primitive of desires lured them off the ship. They disappeared behind that deadly green curtain and were never heard from again. We did not spend a single soldier searching for them. In this land, mercy was tantamount to suicide. Their fate served as the clearest warning: Sothoryos only took; it never gave.

So our ship slowly turned, following another whisper of the trade winds, toward the sun-blessed paradise to the northwest—the Summer Isles.

The laws of that place were utterly unlike the somber death that hung over this land. The sea breeze no longer carried warnings, but the lively beat of drums, rousing songs, and the fragrance of myrrh. The dark-skinned people adorned themselves with gold and feathers, their smiles as bright and open as the midday sun. They were children of the sea, skilled with longbows and curved blades, and even more skilled at celebrating life itself with endless dancing and feasting. Beneath the swaying palm trees, sweet rum flowed like spring water, and ancient sailing songs were passed down through generations, singing of courage, hunting, and tales of pure joy.