Yulon's Travelogue (5)

Valyria—Land of Ash, Whispers, and Fallen Gods

We have finally arrived in this land that should only exist in nightmares or legends—the Valyrian Peninsula. Even merely skirting its edges, the ancient, almost tangible aura of destruction is enough to make the bravest sailor hold their breath. This is not a journey, but a pilgrimage, a dark pilgrimage to the end of the world and the heart of power.

As far as the eye can see, it is a tableau of endings. The sky is shrouded in an eternal curtain of ash, through which sunlight struggles to penetrate, casting a sickly, jaundiced light that distorts the passage of time. The ground beneath our feet is covered in a thick layer of pale dust, into which each step sinks, as if being pulled down by countless hands of the dead. The glories of the past have long since turned to ruins, with only twisted stone pillars and bizarre crystalline walls piercing the dust, like the millennia-weathered bones of ancient behemoths, silently recounting the catastrophe that tore civilization apart.

And what drifts in the air is more than just dust and death. It is them—the "Stone Demons." Those terrifying beings, forged from solidified magma and endless resentment, possess no consciousness, no purpose, only a pure, destructive instinct towards all living things. Their very existence is the whisper and warning of that cataclysm, still resonating today.

To traverse this place requires complete preparation, and even more, the favor of fate. We tread carefully, as if on thin ice, each breath carrying the taste of sulfur and despair. Yet, I feel no fear, but rather an unprecedented... clarity. Here, the pride of civilization and gods has been utterly torn apart, ground into dust. It cruelly displays the ultimate face of power—not just creation, but absolute, indiscriminate destruction.

Camping far from Valyria, I ventured alone into its more dangerous depths at night. As I approached, the Dragon Crystal Compass—the Beacon of Blood and Fire—that I had kept with Lysa began to heat up, its needle spinning wildly. I seemed to hear a voice calling to me.

The Depths of Valyria—Whispers, Dragon Crystals, and the Weight of Fate

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

Every footstep was swallowed by a heavy silence, each step a desecration. As I ventured into a region where even starlight was completely consumed, I suddenly stopped—the Dragon Crystal Compass in my hand, which had been dormant, was growing scorching hot, even emitting a faint dark red glow through my fingers, as if ignited from within.

It was no longer a tool for finding direction, but a frenzied, living thing. The needle spun madly, emitting a high-frequency hum almost too faint to hear, breaking free from all known geographical laws, stubbornly pointing only deeper, into the darkness ahead. And then, I heard it—not through my ears, but directly resounding within my skull: a low, ancient voice, crackling with the sound of fire. It repeated a syllable that was not a word, yet its meaning was branded directly onto my consciousness: it was my name, it was waiting, it was destiny.

Following the guidance of this mad compass, we finally stopped in a hollow surrounded by immense, twisted black stone structures. The magic permeating the area was so dense it made my teeth ache, and the ash in the air seemed to dance slowly. In the center of a patch of volcanic glass that shimmered with an eerie light, it lay quietly—a Dragon Egg.

Its scale-like shell was a deep obsidian black, but it was adorned with dark red patterns that snaked across it like molten gold. Its surface was warm to the touch, as if an inextinguishable ember slumbered within.

Beside it, half-buried in the ash, was a massive, twisted Horn.

It was entirely black, made of neither metal nor stone, its surface carved with ancient Valyrian Runes. Those characters flowed under the moonlight, as if possessing a life of their own. As I reached out to grasp it, a powerful force surged into my arm, and at the same time, I almost heard a dragon's roar echoing through the ages.

I stood amidst the ruins, a Dragon Egg nurturing life in my left hand, a Horn binding power in my right. Destruction and rebirth, creation and control—Valyria bestowed its legacy and its curse upon me, together.

I placed them in the system space, accessible only to me, awaiting the day they would be needed...

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

We have finally arrived in this fabulously wealthy city that calls itself the "Center of the World"—Qarth. Even I must admit, it lives up to its arrogance. Triple great walls, like rings cast by a celestial god, guard it layer by layer, ranging from thirty to fifty feet high, made of sandstone, granite, and finally, black marble for the inner wall. Each is more imposing than the last, each more deadly. The walls are carved with opulent scenes: copulating couples, warring armies, leaping exotic beasts… as if intent on branding all the world's desires and conflicts onto the city's exterior. The inner city gates, inlaid with golden eyes, silently gaze upon every entrant, sending a shiver down one's spine.

Within the city, countless slender spires pierce the sky, as if climbing the stairs to heaven. Every plaza features fountains shaped like griffins or dragons, flowing with clear water, yet the air is filled with the scent of spices, gold, and a deeper, more ancient rust of magic. Nominally, the royal family rules the Hall of a Thousand Thrones. But every whisper on the street knows that true power lies within the great merchant guilds—the Thirteen Magnates, the Amethyst Brotherhood, the Spice Guild. It is their gold that weaves the destiny of this city.

And above all this, another shadow looms—the Warlocks. Their Hall of Dust, that terrifying structure known as the "Hall of Immortality," consumes all fools who seek power and revelation. They drink a blue, viscous liquid called "Nightshade Water."

I took a sip. My first sensation was like swallowing rotten flesh mixed with ink, utterly disgusting; but then, a strange warmth exploded in my chest, like flames coiling around my heart, and my tongue strangely tingled with the sweetness of honey, fennel, and cream… dangerous, yet intoxicating, much like Qarth itself.

Here, Lysa's reaction drew more attention than any fountain or spire. When a member of the Thirteen Magnates passed by with a great spice merchant on the main avenue, she froze instantly, her fingers clenching so tightly that her nails dug into her palms, unnoticed, blood seeping through the gaps.

"You are my person," I murmured to her, my gaze still sweeping over this city of golden eyes and mist. "If you have grudges against them, tell me."

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

I looked at the "wet nurses" adorned in silks, and a thought spread through my mind like Nightshade Water: the Thirteen Magnates are merely merchants. They can control a nation with gold. How simple, and how… tempting a principle.

"If we support a merchant," I turned to Lysa, my voice devoid of jest, "do you think we could replace one of them?" This city has taught me one thing: true power doesn't always need to wield a sword; sometimes, it just needs to sit on a pile of enough gold, smile, and buy everything.

"It would be beneficial for you," I added, looking at her pale face. "And for me, as well."

I told Lysa, "Use your intelligence and think of a way to control this city. I am absolutely your investor, because I believe this deal will be very worthwhile!"

The Red Viper actually nodded in agreement, "If it's true, I'm willing to invest as well."

The Wilderness, the Summer Isles—Whispers of the Rainforest and Songs of the Archipelago

The edges of the sea charts twist here, the routes suddenly turn south, resolutely piercing those vague regions marked as legend, fantasy, and warnings of skulls.

If fate still holds a shred of mad favor, we may become the first madmen—or fools—in centuries to dare sail towards the cursed coast of Sothoryos.

I stand on the sterncastle, but even the salty wind cannot blow away the image of that verdant hell from my mind. My gaze seems to pierce the horizon, seeing that tropical rainforest that greedily devours time and civilization. The ancient Yamen Tower lies prostrate in an eternal swamp, its broken colossal rocks tightly entwined by snake-like vines, like the bones of a strangled giant; and deeper still, the legendary wilderness consists only of non-human carved stone formations, remaining silent in the churning miasma, guarding long-forgotten secrets. There, the humid air itself is poison, fever stalks relentlessly, and the natives, their skin painted with mottled patterns, greet us with poisoned darts and chilling silence.

They see us as invaders—and I must admit, they are absolutely correct in their assessment and their actions. It is not a land awaiting exploration, but a graveyard awaiting burial; by turning it into a place of terror, no one would dare invade.

This sense of danger was grimly confirmed by the fate of two foolish sellswords. They spotted a girl washing herself naked by the shore and were lured by primal desire off the ship, disappearing into that deadly green curtain, never to be seen again. We did not expend a single soldier to search—in this land, mercy is tantamount to suicide. Their fate became the clearest proclamation: Sothoryos only takes, it never gives.

Thus, our ship's bow slowly turned, following another whisper of the trade winds, pointing towards the sun-kissed paradise to the northwest—the Summer Isles.

The laws there are the opposite of the gloomy deathly aura of this place. The sea breeze carries not warnings, but vibrant drumbeats, unrestrained songs, and the fragrance of myrrh. The dark-skinned, glossy-haired people adorn themselves with gold and feathers, their smiles as hot and open as the midday sun. They are children of the sea, skilled with longbows and curved blades, and even more adept at celebrating the vitality of life itself with never-ending dances and feasts. Beneath the swaying palm trees, sweet Rum flows like a spring, and ancient sea shanties are passed down through generations, singing legends of courage, hunting, and pure joy.