Starred Tower: System Misinterpret Book One - A Post Apocalyptic Cultivation LitRPG

by Ryan DeBruyn

  “If she’s mentally ill, why do all of you follow her?” I ask quietly, wiping a hand across my face to clear my eyes. I can’t help it; I still care for Leah despite what Alrick says is normal or abnormal. Sometimes, I even think she cares about me in her own way. Alrick looks at me, and I can see the moment he gets uncomfortable. He shifts back on his heels and then averts his gaze, appearing uneasy thanks to my emotion. I reach up and finger my ear again as I try to hide the hand with a tiny bit of wetness on it. I know better than to openly show feelings. What was I thinking? I don’t want to alienate the one person who’s willing to chat with me. It took me three years to finally befriend the gruff man, and even now, I’m not sure if he is actually a friend. But he is willing to help me escape.

  Alrick looks back up to the Elysium City that the True Silver Array surrounds. Following his line of sight once again, I realize he is now staring at the single skyscraper’s darker shadows. Those lone floating skyscrapers that sit centrally to the Array are the goal of every human being on the planet. Everyone wants to become a ranker—one of the fabled few that conquer the fiftieth floor and now own an Elysium City. I dream of that too, on many nights, probably more for the power it comes with than the city itself.

  Of course, according to those stories told by the mercs around the campfires, these constructs used to fly over the wilds. They didn’t block the direct sunlight of the Metropolises. But ever since ‘The Great Disappearance’ of the Northern Territory’s top rankers on the fifty-first floor, there hasn’t been enough protection for the things. Historically speaking, the major cities began struggling due to high-level dungeons remaining open for too long. That’s when the Elysium Cities moved in, blocking sunlight access for monsters and freeing up high-ranking individuals to protect Suburbs. One problem: those same cities block sunlight for humans too. The few places they don’t clutter are known as Suburbs, and the sunny expanses of clustered buildings have limited access for commoners or mercenaries. Instead, trash like us walk through the ruins under the shade of True Silver Arrays.

  “Look, kid. I can only tell you why I follow her. She pays more in a month than I made clearing dungeons in a year. These mercs”—Alrick motions around us at the others—“will do anything for money, and that includes moving from city to city through the wilds or searching for whatever that woman claims will save the world. I’m still not sure I want to leave, but what good is money if we die with it. Right, boy?” Alrick says, his hands coming to rest on a bulging leather sack that hangs from his waist. A corner of my mouth twitches. Alrick somehow classifies himself as a hunter, even though he is amongst a large group of mercenaries, doing the same work as them.

  “You sure you don’t mind spending your money on me?” I press in a whisper, still at a loss for why the man is willing to take me with him. I don’t have anything to contribute, especially money for whatever food, accommodations, or livelihood we find in the nearest Suburb.

  “Don’t worry so much.” Alrick slaps me on the back heartily, removing his hand from his money pouch. “Hunter groups always need more members, and they usually have a home base set up in the Suburb for when they return from missions and are selling their goods. I think with my C-rank, I can convince them to let you join with me. If not, we will find a different group.”

  “What about the guilds?” I whisper right on the final syllable of Alrick’s sentence. Part of that big dream is to become a ranker and member of the powerful Northern Sabres. Each one of their members is practically a god in the eyes of the mercenaries.

  “Kid, I wouldn’t trust a guild if I was starving, and they were holding a slab of boar meat with a frosted mug of ale. Those bastards are what got us into this in the first place! Sending in a thousand S-rankers to clear ten floors in the tower. . . Not a single one of them ever returned. Look around you.” Alrick gestures at the crumbled concrete, fallen wooden houses, and overgrown foliage. “This is all because of their politicking.” I blink at his dismissal. Guilds are the peak of power, the life of luxury. Aren’t they?

  There is a second fault in his logic as well. People who enter the tower must clear ten floors to exit again, at least as far as I have been able to ferret out. So why blame the guilds for that? I don’t argue with him because I want to learn more. There is so much he is teaching me. One of our most recent conversations was about the growing power gap between the Century Born and the Old-Worlders. Like so many of our discussions, after I think about them, I have hundreds of questions. Is the term Century Born out of date? We are a hundred and fifty years past The Rise, after all. I open my mouth to ask—

  “Leanne Turle.” A voice booms over the area, vibrating the pebbles and stalks of long grass around Alrick and me. “Surrender now! We will kill anyone who resists. You have five seconds.” Several gleaming chariots fly into view, and I can see men and women standing atop them and looking down on our group.

  Their small flying vehicles resemble those water-faring crafts. I think the term Alrick uses is ‘boats’? Regardless, I stare in wonder, never having seen them this close up before. They are made from shimmering metals and have a round bottom and flat top with a slight lip containing the interior. I guess the last bit because I can’t see the distant people’s legs.

  The longer I watch, the more expensive crafts zoom into my view—I turn my head and see more of the ships. Not just a few either. Nearly a hundred more of the things are at evenly spaced intervals like they are creating a containment zone around the mercenaries. Who are they?

  “Five.”

  What? Why would they need such a large group to capture one person? I have witnessed a few criminals taken prisoner from our very own mercenary group. Usually, a church guard or lawman approaches, and then Leah talks with them. This army facing us seems to suggest that this Leanne Turle is powerful enough to warrant it.

  I look around at the mercenaries and see many individuals begin slowly raising their hands above their heads. The looks of confusion I see probably match my own.

  “Four.”

  What should I do? Eyebrows rising, I turn to Alrick, who makes a ‘raise your hands, idiot’ gesture with both of his own. I shrug and begin doing so. This patrol must have the wrong group. None of us is stronger than Alrick at his C-rank. At least, I think so?

  “That’s Leanne Turle right there,” Leah’s voice calls as she points at one of the female mercenaries. I believe the person she indicates is a long-time member of our group, Francesca. “I won’t keep your secrets for you anymore!” Leah finishes, her voice shrill and oscillating. Leah’s arm is shaking as she points, and I wonder. . . Is she afraid of this Leanne? But Francesca is a high D ranker. . . I’ve personally seen her fight on one or two occasions, and while impressive, it wouldn’t warrant this.

  “Three.”

  “Those five near her are all her accomplices,” Leah shouts, while gesturing vaguely at what could be more than twenty mercenaries. The people closest to Francesca begin moving, which leaves others nearest to her. My eyebrows rise; that seems like an inflammatory thing to say. What are the odds that her accomplices would be surrounding her already? Isn’t that too convenient? That’s when the mercenaries start fighting with each other or trying to escape. I watch in horror, and the moment stretches as I realize . . . the army said to surrender.

  The stillness is broken as spells and skills begin erupting in the paths of the fleeing mercs. I flinch with each blast and try to keep my hands in the air. I’m surrendering. They shouldn’t hurt me if I don’t move, right? The blasts shake the very ground I’m standing on, and soon knock me right off my feet. My already erratic heartbeat stutters; I’m not standing or still any longer.

  I stand back up and see Leah rushing toward me. Is she going to try to protect me? That seems so out of character for the woman. Then I see the purple bolts of liquid flying at her. Of course, she was just dodging—her back is to me, and she ducks one bolt before leaping left. I’m to her left. . .

  Her rising shoulder catch
es me between my waist and chest, and I feel my feet leave the ground. I pinwheel my arms, trying to gain some sort of control over my body as it spins through the air. I have a moment to wonder if this is what flying is like before I crash headfirst into something rigid and sharp. Is that what crashing feels. . .

  Chapter 3

  August 22nd, 151 AR

  Jeff Smith

  Alrick pulled his bleeding and broken body along the ground. He was missing limbs, and was only alive thanks to his C-rank cultivation. Unfortunately, that wouldn’t keep him alive much longer. So, he attempted to get out of sight before the black smoke from the high-level attack cleared.

  He didn’t want to believe that Leah would attack her boy. Still, one moment he was dodging projectiles and trying to surrender at the same time; the next, the kid was flying through the air nearby. For an instant, he scolded himself for not thinking to protect Jeff, but when he followed his trajectory, he found Leah, her face morphed in a rictus snarl.

  After that, it was time to take the boy and run. Time to do what he should have done nearly five years ago. He’d failed to save his family then but wouldn’t fail to save Jeff now. He needed to save this kid. But just like before, it seemed like he made the wrong decision. The army wasn’t willing to let this Leanne Turle get away. Like with the monster horde, somehow he and Jeff were just collateral damage.

  It’s probably rare to get offered the same decision twice in a lifetime, but Alrick wasn’t going to let his second mistake end poorly for Jeff. Not today, not when he was still breathing.

  He flooded his body with his liquid and locked down on his wounds, stopping his bleeding and removing pain where he could. The jolt of energy revitalized him and he recalled there being a collapsed concrete apartment complex just to his left, before the explosion came close to obliterating him and the boy from the world. He wasn’t sure who those people were, but he knew that he needed to get Jeff and himself to safety.

  Each push off the ground threatened to overwhelm his liquid-wrapped nerves, but he couldn’t stop. Would he do this all differently if he were given the opportunity? Absolutely. His liquid was dangerously low. He was missing a leg, half of an arm, and currently dragging a near-dead Jeff over the ground. If someone in his position answered that they wouldn’t do this differently, he would laugh in their face. He was dying and trying desperately to find a hiding spot for a tiny chance of survival.

  That chance lay in anonymity and his only Sun Pill. Five years ago, in the wilds, carrying a Sun Pill had saved his life. That’s why he always kept a single pill in his grandfather’s pocket watch despite the cost.

  He felt the change before he saw it: The ground went from rough stony soil to gravel and sharp stones, and then even further to broken concrete slabs. Each crawling inch he gained scraped at his wounds and took more of his liquid. The light level grew darker, but he noticed that the low, clinging greyish-black fog dissipated.

  The farther he crawled into the space, the darker it got, until suddenly he could see. Somewhere ahead, there was a swirling blue pattern, reflecting from the gray concrete ceiling. The closer he got, the more he realized that this was a dungeon. It’s the only thing that makes this coloration and pattern, and he’s seen hundreds if not thousands in his life. From the light, Alrick deduced that the portal lay inside and at the bottom of a pile of rubble.

  He crested the top of the rubble and found himself looking down onto a horizontal portal. He’d never even heard of someone talking about a portal like this. Usually, they were vertical. To call it odd was an understatement, but he dismissed that and looked behind him. Was he far enough now that the people who attacked wouldn’t look for him and the boy? It would be best to not enter the unknown this unmarked dungeon represented.

  He swore at himself when he felt the pressure change. They weren’t going to look for them. They just launched another fireball or explosion spell into the area. He heaved with all of his might and tucked what remained of his limbs around Jeff’s unconscious body. They rolled and tumbled down the side of the loose debris, right into the open maw of the spinning blue portal. Alrick just hoped that this boss room provided the preparation area that every dungeon he’d been in before did. Of course, he’d never seen a horizontal one before.

  Alrick felt his lungs explode as a sudden collision ejected all the air out of them. His back flared with pain; he could still feel the grate pattern indents. The only thing that saved him from broken ribs or possibly being cut to ribbons was a loud ping before the surface tilted and dumped him off. He hit a much more rigid floor another twenty or so feet farther down, but most of his momentum was already gone from the first impact.

  His good arm, which was holding Jeff, lost its grip on the kid. The boy’s body bounced off of his chest into the darkness to his right. He had time to hope the kid didn’t fall out of the dungeon’s safe zone. But he needed to take his Sun Pill now, or he was going to die. Fumbling at his chest pocket, he found the thing torn wide open. His grandfather’s pocket watch, which his father had gifted him all those years ago, was gone. Inside that watch was the life-saving pill. A groan above him was the only warning he got as vast sections of concrete fell through the portal and crashed on top of him.

  As the crashing and rumbling slowed, then drew to a stop, a blue light blinked on in the center of a round concrete table.

  *Welcome to the Training Room [Purple]*

  The Training Room is a feature of the Delving Spire. Using resources found in the outer world, the Delving Spire, and the Towers, you can upgrade the Training Room to better serve your purposes.

  *Owner*

  Barclay Rocklan - Deceased for 47,815 days. (Ownership voided)

  *New occupants detected.*

  Time to exit sleep mode based on residual qi’s . . . 934 days

  Correction. New occupant detected.

  Absorbing body and qi. Time to exit sleep mode . . . 7 hours

  Transferring ownership. . .

  *Apps Remaining in the Training Room*

  Home Gym [Green]

  Locker Room [Green]

  Sleeping Cots [Gray]

  Small Kitchen [Green]

  *Current Passive Bonuses*

  Training Room [Purple]

  -While in the Training Room all recovery time is reduced by 300%

  ----

  *Welcome to the Training Room [Purple]*

  Restart

  The Training Room needs to clean, and repair. Repairs will start in one minute. During repairs, all access to the outside world will be closed. No one but the owner will be allowed inside the Training Room during this time. The repair will take anywhere from one week to a full month.

  A light that is too bright to be the sun filtering through a True Silver Array or forest canopy, but also too cold to be what I imagine direct sunlight feels like, registers through my eyelids. I try to process the situation. Did we find a house with a generator or some other form of electricity yesterday?

  The memories of the army coming to capture ‘Leanne Turle,’ and Leah dodging through me, twist my stomach. I try to console myself. That can’t be right. Maybe that was a bad dream due to finally reaching the tough decision to leave.

  I sit upright and open my eyes—no point theorizing when I can discover. The first thing I see is the light-emitting diodes glaring off the reflective surfaces of metal and the not-so-reflective concrete from quite a few directions. Is that a gym with weights? I haven’t seen one of those since we found that partially intact mansion up in Collingwood. That gym, like this one, was covered in a layer of rust and dust. What was the point of these things before The Rise? Moving weights with no purpose or destination seems slightly counterintuitive to me. I think I recall people in the old world didn’t have monsters to combat. They must have needed things like this to pass the time.

  Shrugging, I stand up slowly and notice flakes of something falling off my abdomen. They look like rust. My shirt is shredded, and only really has two black sleeves. Correct
ion, a bit of the back and neck remain. There are more patches of the rust-colored stuff on my bare shoulders, arms, and even on my forehead. Whatever it is, it even tangles in my leg hair where my cargo pants are ripped away. The red coloration and scabby texture alert my brain to what the flecks falling away are. They’re dried blood, revealing white lines underneath. How did I get hurt? And for my healing to be this far along, it must’ve been at least a day and a half—

  My heart freezes, and my stomach tries to eject its contents onto the floor, but it’s empty. If I have been unconscious for a day and a half without any sunlight or high-liquid foods, I could be perilously close to ‘Wasting’. The term ‘Wasted’ is what is generally associated with the death of humans with an empty Dantian. Without liquid inside the organ or food in the stomach, the body begins to rapidly consume itself, causing immense pain that is nearly impossible to stop without help from someone else.

  I sense that my Dantian is down to two drops. Wait—so I was injured this badly and only consumed eleven drops of liquid? At a weak F-2 rating, my Dantian can only hold thirteen drops of liquid total, and that amount wouldn’t be enough to heal the damage my scabs indicate. That doesn’t make sense and adds to my confusion about the circumstances. Why am I in this strange concrete room with working lights?

  I spin slowly, taking in the entirety of the space around me. Where are the rest of the mercenaries? Surely they should be here as well. Nearly right behind me, my eyes run over a pile of concrete debris and rubble. The base is easily twenty feet across and tapers up to the ceiling. From right above me, I notice two metal supports that used to hold up a staircase but now dangle a landing right above my head. The platform is a stretch of metal grating, swinging like it is on strings. Hurriedly, I move away from the hazard, glad it didn’t fall and crush me while I was unconscious. If that’s the exit, I’m not getting through it anytime soon.