Valyria — Ash, Whispers, and the Land of Fallen Gods
We finally arrived at this land that should only exist in nightmares or legends—the Valyrian Peninsula. Even just lingering on its edge, the aura of destruction originating from ancient times, almost condensed into substance, was enough to make the bravest sailors hold their breath. This is not a journey, but a pilgrimage—a dark pilgrimage to doom and power.
As far as the eye can see, scenes of the end abound. The sky is shrouded in an eternal curtain of ash; sunlight struggles to penetrate, casting sickly, dim shadows, distorting the flow of time. The earth beneath is covered in a thick layer of pale dust; every step sinks deep, as if dragged down by countless dead hands. Past glories have long turned to ruins, with only twisted stone pillars and grotesquely crystallized walls piercing the dust, like the millennium-weathered bones of ancient beasts, silently telling of the catastrophe that tore civilization apart.
Wandering in the air is not just dust and death. There are also them—"Stone Demons" (Stone Men/Gargoyles come to life?). Terrifying creations condensed from solidified magma and endless resentment, devoid of consciousness or purpose, possessing only a pure instinct for the destruction of all living things. Their existence itself is the whisper and warning of that catastrophe continuing to this day.
Crossing this place requires perfect preparation and the favor of fate. We tread carefully, as if on thin ice, every breath tasting of sulfur and despair. But I am not afraid; instead, I feel an unprecedented... clarity. Here, the pride of civilization and gods was thoroughly torn apart and crushed into dust. It cruelly displays the ultimate face of power—not just creation, but thorough, indiscriminate destruction.
We camped far from Valyria. At night, I went alone deeper into the more dangerous parts of Valyria. Approaching this place, the Dragon Glass Compass—the beacon of blood and fire—that I had left with Lysa began to heat up. The needle spun constantly, and I seemed to hear a voice calling me.
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Deep Valyria — Whispers, Dragon Glass, and the Weight of Destiny
I walked as if at the bottom of the world's ashes.
Every footstep was swallowed by heavy silence; every step felt like blasphemy. When I penetrated an area where even starlight was completely devoured, I suddenly stopped—the Dragon Glass Compass, silent in my hand until now, was becoming scorching hot, even emitting a faint dark red glow through my fingers, as if ignited from within.
It was no longer a tool for direction, but a frantic living thing. The needle spun madly, emitting an almost inaudible high-frequency hum, breaking free from all known geographical laws, stubbornly pointing only to the deeper, darker front. And just then, I heard it—not through ears, but resonating directly inside my skull: a low, ancient call carrying the crackle of flames. It repeated a syllable that wasn't a word, but its meaning was branded directly into my consciousness. It was my name, it was waiting, it was destiny.
Following the guidance of this crazy compass, we finally stopped in a depression surrounded by massive, twisted black stone structures. The magic permeating there was thick enough to make teeth ache; the ash in the air seemed to dance slowly. In the center of a patch of eerily glowing volcanic glass, it lay quietly—a Dragon Egg.
Its scale-like shell was profound ink black, yet meandering with dark red veins like flowing molten gold. It felt warm to the touch, as if eternal embers slumbered within.
Beside it, half-buried in ash, was a massive, twisted Horn.
It was entirely pitch black, made of neither metal nor stone, its surface carved with ancient Valyrian glyphs. Those characters flowed under the moonlight, seemingly possessing lives of their own. When I reached out to grasp it, a powerful force instantly surged into my arm. At the same time, I almost hallucinated a dragon roar traversing the ages.
I stood amidst the ruins, holding the Dragon Egg nurturing life in my left hand, and the Horn binding power in my right. Destruction and rebirth, creation and control; Valyria handed its legacy and curse together to me.
I placed them into the System Space where no one but I could peek, waiting for the day when they would need to appear...
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Qarth — Golden Eyes, Mist, and the Taste of Power
We finally arrived at this city of immense wealth claiming to be the "Center of the World"—Qarth. Even I have to admit, it deserves this arrogance. Three massive walls, like rings thrown down by gods, guard layer upon layer, from thirty to fifty feet, from sandstone to granite to the inner black marble. Each more majestic than the last, each more deadly. The walls are carved with scenes of extravagance: copulating men and women, fighting armies, leaping exotic beasts... as if to brand all the world's desires and conflicts onto the city's shell. The inner city gates, inlaid with golden eyes, silently stare at every intruder, sending chills down the spine.
Inside, countless slender spires pierce the sky, as if climbing stairs to heaven. Every square has fountains in the shape of griffins or dragons flowing with clear water, but the air is filled with spices, gold, and a deeper, rusty smell belonging to magic. Nominally, the Pureborn rule from the Hall of a Thousand Thrones. But whispers on every corner know that true power lies in the hands of those massive merchant guilds—the Thirteen, the Tourmaline Brotherhood, the Ancient Guild of Spicers. It is their gold coins that weave the city's fate.
Above all this hangs another shadow—the Warlocks. Their House of Dust, that terrible building known as the "House of the Undying," swallows all fools seeking power and revelation. They drink a blue, honey-thick "Shade of the Evening."
I tasted a sip. The first sensation was like swallowing rotten meat mixed with ink, utterly disgusting; but then, a strange warmth exploded in my chest, like flames wrapping the heart, and my tongue weirdly tasted the sweet fragrance of honey, anise, and cream... Dangerous, but intoxicating, just like Qarth itself.
Here, Lysa's reaction drew my attention more than any fountain or spire. When a member of the Thirteen and a spice magnate passed on the avenue, she instantly stiffened, fingers clenching tight, nails digging into her palm unaware, blood seeping through her fingers.
"You are my person," I whispered to her, gaze still scanning this city full of golden eyes and mist. "If you have a grudge against them, you might as well say it."
She remained silent, but that silence was more deafening than any accusation.
I watched those "Milk Men" magnates draped in silk. A thought spread in my mind like Shade of the Evening: The Thirteen are just merchants. They can control a nation with gold. How simple, and how... alluring a rule.
"If we prop up a merchant," I turned to Lysa, voice devoid of jest, "say, could we make him replace one of them?" This city taught me one thing: true power doesn't always need to wave a sword. Sometimes, it just needs to sit on a big enough sack of gold, smile, and buy everything.
"This benefits you," I looked at her pale face, adding, "and me as well."
I told Lysa: "Use your intelligence, think of a way to control this city. I am absolutely your investor, because I believe this deal is definitely worth it!"
The Red Viper surprisingly nodded in agreement: "If true, I'm willing to invest a share too."
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Yeen & The Summer Isles — Whispers of the Rainforest and Ballads of the Archipelago
The edge of the sea chart distorts here; the route turns abruptly south, resolutely piercing into blurred areas marked with legends, fantasies, and skull warnings.
If fate holds a trace of mad favor, we might become the first lunatics—or fools—in centuries daring to sail toward the cursed coast of Sothoryos.
I stood on the poop deck. The salty, fishy wind couldn't disperse the image of that dense green hell in my mind. My gaze seemed to pierce the horizon, seeing the tropical rainforest greedily devouring time and civilization. The ancient Yeen crawls in the eternal swamp, its broken massive rocks tightly strangled by python-like vines, like the bones of strangled giants. Deeper still, the legendary Green Hell leaves only inhuman stone arrays silent in the churning miasma, guarding long-forgotten secrets. There, the humid air itself is poison; fever follows like a shadow. And the natives with dappled paint on their skin greet us with poisoned blowdarts and cold silence.
They view us as intruders—on this point, I must say they see incredibly correctly, and act incredibly correctly. That is not a land waiting to be explored, but a graveyard waiting to bury. Making it a place of fear ensures no one dares invade.
This tangible danger was bloodily confirmed by the fate of two foolish mercenaries. Spying a girl washing clothes naked by the shore, they were hooked off the ship by primitive desire, disappearing behind that deadly green curtain, never heard from again. We didn't waste a single soldier to search—in this land, mercy equals suicide. Their fate became the clearest notice: Sothoryos only takes, never gives.
So, our prow slowly turned, following another whisper of the trade winds, pointing northwest to the paradise favored by sunlight—The Summer Isles.
The laws there are the opposite of the gloomy aura of death here. The sea wind delivers not warnings, but leaping drum beats, uninhibited ballads, and the fragrance of myrrh. People with dark, shiny skin adorn themselves with gold and feathers, smiles as hot and open as the noon sun. They are children of the sea, masters of the longbow and curved blade, even more skilled at praising the vitality of life itself with ceaseless dance and feasts. Under swaying palm trees, sweet rum flows like spring water, ancient sailing ballads sung generation after generation, chanting legends of courage, hunting, and pure joy.