Within the cavernous halls of the old observatory, the Mycomancer was a specter among ghosts. The fungi thrived here, more abundant and dynamic than in any other place he had encountered. Their tendrils wove through the remains of ancient machinery, transforming rusted relics into living mosaics of decay and life. His existence had become intricately linked with theirs, each discovery a joint venture into the nature of survival and memory.

He had taken to meditating alongside the fungi, their bioluminescence casting eerie, comforting light in the dark recesses of the ruins. Every session drew him further into their world, bridging the gap between man and nature. He felt their history, their profound wisdom embedded within the mycelium. They whispered tales of resilience, of how life adapted and thrived even when civilization perished.

The cold was ceaseless, an omnipresent reminder of the mountains' dominance over life. The wind's howl seeped into every crevice, and the stones themselves seemed to shiver in defiance. His well-worn fingers, adorned with fungal tattoos, traced the contours of ancient scripts etched into crumbling walls. These inscriptions were more than simple writings—they were testaments of lost knowledge, echoes of a time when technology seemed unassailable.

It was then he noticed a consistent pattern, a sequence of symbols that reappeared in different sections of the observatory. Compelled by an intuition as ancient as the mountains, he followed these cryptic markers, navigating through the dilapidated labyrinth until he reached a concealed chamber. Inside, remnants of advanced apparatus lay dormant, their purpose obscured by layers of frost and time.

Kneeling, he touched the dormant devices, willing the mycelium to come alive. The fungi responded, illuminating the room with a faint glow that revealed more of the mysterious symbols. His mind reached out, bridging the gap between his newfound powers and the dormant technology. An image formed—a sphere, pulsating with energy, surrounded by the same robed figures from his earlier visions. They were chanting, their faces resolute and lined with worry.

The realization hit him with a jolt. This chamber had been a place of last hope, where scholars had attempted to stave off the looming apocalypse. They had tried to harness the mountain's energy, to integrate it with their failing grid—an act of desperation to avert the techno-catastrophe they saw coming.

Beneath the observatory, the fungi pulsed with increased vigor, the network's energy coursing through him. He felt the faint rhythm of the earth itself, a heartbeat that aligned with his own. It was in this moment of synergy that he saw a possibility, the potential to rekindle some of the lost knowledge, to find new ways of survival not reliant on the fragile constructs that had once ruled the world.

Outside, the weather shifted ominously. Clouds amassed, dark and foreboding, and the first flakes of snow began to fall. The Mycomancer knew that a storm was approaching, but in this newfound chamber, he also sensed an opportunity. His duty was clear: he would harness the power within, using his bond with the mycelium to extract what wisdom these ancient scholars had left behind.

As the storm intensified, shelter was paramount. He sealed himself within the chamber, drawing warmth and sustenance from the fungi. His dreadlocks, now matted with frost, served as both insulation and testament to his enduring journey. The chamber’s walls trembled under Nature's assault, but within, there was a calm—a bubble of persistently defiant life.

He passed the time by immersing himself in the fungal network, each moment expanding his understanding. The visions were clearer now, more coherent. He witnessed the final days of the scholars, their forlorn attempts at salvation, and their solemn acceptance of the inevitable. Their belief in science and technology had been their strength and their downfall, a paradox he now deeply understood.

His practice with the mycelium bore fruit. Small lesions healed with rapid efficacy, and his awareness of the surrounding ecosystem became acute. He could sense water trapped deep within ice, edible plants hidden beneath snowdrifts. In the quiet of the storm, the Mycomancer felt, for the first time, a burgeoning control over his powers.

Yet, amidst these strides forward, his memory continued to elude him. Authentication of the past remained shrouded in myth. Were these scholars real, or merely manifestations of his burgeoning powers and the fragmented history whispered through the fungi? The unanswered questions mattered less; survival turned myth into utility.

The storm eventually receded, leaving the mountains glistening under a blanket of fresh snow. The Mycomancer emerged from the chamber, the echoes of old scholars' voices blending with the wind's howl. Each step forward was heavy with the weight of newly gleaned knowledge and an ever-growing resilience.

The Impassable Mountains had tested him, transformed him, but also bestowed upon him a rare gift—the chance to merge old-world wisdom with nature's indomitable will. The path ahead was still fraught with uncertainty, but now, armed with the ancient secrets and newfound powers, he felt a quiet resolve settling in. His journey through the desolate wastelands was far from over, but with each discovery, the glacial mists of the past began to clear, promising something poised on the edge of revelation.