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

by Ryan DeBruyn

  I can smell the dirty sweat bubbling to the surface of my skin. This is another by-product of removing impurities within your body. With enough liquid you can burn them out and not suffer the stench, but when you’re working with limited resources . . . those impurities have to go somewhere. In this case, they are carried to the surface of my body using water and my pores. My nose wrinkles, and I try to rub away the sweat near the appendage, only to remember my shirt is practically a rag hanging from my neck and back.

  I begin breathing through my mouth, knowing it is only going to get worse. The River isn’t as clear as it could be, and so I let the new liquid purge what I missed the first time. Once it is cleansed, I begin looking for the secondary ‘channel’ known as ‘Subcutavian’—the next step according to those lessons. I need to peek at the book to recall the name even. Who comes up with these anyway?

  My liquid finds the channel because the blood I’m following also flows in that direction. Would this make the channel a smaller artery, then? That question is cast away when I feel the liquid rebound back into the River. Here is where advancing a rank becomes difficult. The vessel through to the ‘return’ surrounding the Dantian is blocked and spiritually necrotic. To even begin cleansing it of impurities, I have to build up enough pressure to break through that blockage. The trial doesn’t end there as I then must spiritually revitalize the channels and the tissues of the Dantian they encompass. Kind of like what I just did with the remaining impurities in my River.

  I gather all the liquid in from the pools it’s formed at random places in my body and am shocked to find fifty drops of it thanks to the Sun Pill. Now that there is too much liquid energy in the River, the pressure increases drastically. My breath catches, and I bring a hand to my sternum as the pain begins to intensify. I glance at the book to confirm. Yes, Alrick said this is normal, and I must endure it. Still, I am instantly reminded why better meditation is so important—it would help me ignore this uncomfortable sensation while I work, according to Alrick.

  Locking down on the liquid in the River, I begin forming a shape within it. Almost like a ship with a wide prow that narrows to a sharp triangle. As it rushes toward the Subcutavian, I steer it, pointing it directly at the black blockage in my mind. I imagine the sounds of a crash as the point drives itself into the necroses. For an instant, I feel the pressure behind it building and the point digging forward, but then it seems to stop before the pressure rebounds, flooding back out of the Subcutavian to overflow the River.

  “By the Tower!” I exclaim, my hand flying to my head to rub at a temple. I check the book and watch as the letters float on the page. “I don’t think Alrick mentioned pressure in the head!” I complain, trying to jolt my body into awareness again. My breathing is ragged as I try to maintain my consciousness. If I fail, all this extra liquid might be gone when I wake up. Any free-floating liquid that isn’t contained in the God Organ dissipates in a few hours, according to my notes. I can’t waste this then! I bite down hard on my cheek and taste blood, but the self-inflicted pain jerks me back from the brink.

  My first ship still flaps uselessly in the blockage, its prow too deep to come out but not far enough to break through. My brow furrows as I form another mental picture of a nail. I make this image thinner, reducing its point to a sharp needle. I need to strike right next to the first collision. It reaches the turn, and I wrench the liquid energy, forcing the needle into the Subcutavian. Now to finely control the rudder. I realize too late, a needle doesn’t have a rudder, and I have no control over where this second point will hit.

  It strikes a new area, and I groan as I realize it likely won’t break through either—unless! I grab as much of the liquid from the Sun Pill as I can and form it into a wave. When fine control fails, it’s time to brute force it. I slam the energy into the two nail heads like it’s a tsunami and feel the obstruction bulge inwards but form a seal around my needle and ship’s prow, almost like rubber. Before the pressure rebounds, I slam a second mass of energy into them and feel the obstruction give way to the immense pressure in the River.

  Liquid rushes down the new pathway, burning everything it touches like a wildfire. The pain I was preparing for hits but isn’t as sharp as the rebound. I breathe a sigh of relief and take stock. I have twenty-nine drops of the liquid remaining, and after I fill up my Dantian with eleven more, I only have eighteen remaining. Not enough to attempt another breakthrough, not when the Subcutavian needs to heal. I begin applying the liquid as if each drop were a rain cloud watering the channel’s burned and blackened areas. This method is closer to burning out the abscesses, and thankfully will not cause the stench from earlier. It does sting a bit to throw away these extra drops of liquid, but I’ve had far more dissipate thanks to Leah. At least these drops are doing something. . .

  Each area the liquid touches smokes and cracks before a tint of red hints at surfacing. The longer I apply a rain cloud, the pinker an area becomes until it looks like healthy tissue. I continue along the vessel and channel until I run out of liquid from the Sun Pill. The pill bought me eleven more days all told, and the struggle of my breakthrough only added space in my Dantian for a single extra drop.

  I feel the loss of the liquid that wouldn’t fit into my Dantian sharply. For most people, it only takes a few weeks to get into the E-ranks. Some even accomplish it in a day. But if I’d been given access to the sun as a child, I definitely wouldn’t be in the F-ranks now at twenty-one years of age. Yet, this is an accomplishment. I’ve defied Leah! That really, really feels good. I am now an F-3, and she probably still believes I am stuck as an F-2. I open my eyes and feel the achiness of the breakthrough. This pain is also a natural occurrence for cultivators, and I forgot just how uncomfortable it is. At the F-ranks, this pain only lasts for a day, maybe two, but the higher your cultivation, the longer breakthrough pain lingers—or so I have been told.

  I place my journal back in my pocket and stand up, moving back toward the bathroom. I don’t want to waste water, but my skin feels tight as the dirty sweat evaporates. I can also smell myself, and it isn’t pleasant. Even breathing through my mouth leaves an unpleasant taste.

  The first thing I notice is that the black mold is slowly disappearing. I line my foot up with the wall and assess it again. The first time through, the mildew had receded to my pinky toe. Now, it’s nearing my big toe, which admittedly isn’t much but does prove that something is happening. What if it’s got something to do with air quality? Is this place sealed entirely from outside? I glance at the rubble and shake my head. No, there’s no way it formed an airtight seal. Not with chunks like that. Admittedly, I can’t see an opening. . .

  I’ll consider it more after a cold shower. I head inside, and something I can’t believe I missed on my first inspection catches my eye. One of the lockers, still rusted and hanging crooked, has a green light illuminated on its front. Tilting my head, I approach and open the front door with a loud creak. Inside is a folded white towel with a bar of something white and fragrant resting atop it.

  Could this be soap? Some people in the troupe carried soap around in a plastic toiletry container. I have used it with some frequency, but to have a full bar and a spotless towel seems like the height of luxury. I snatch up the gift before thinking about it, and two black items flutter on the air before landing on the ground.

  The strange aerial dance of the fabric snaps me out of my excitement. I watch as the overhead lights cause the dark fabric to glisten and I pick up the two items almost as soon as they touch the floor. The material is soft, almost slick, but I feel it stretch with relative ease as I turn it in the light. The more I study it, the more I am sure it is clothing, as it fits the basic shape of a shirt and pants, but it is far too small, more like it is made for a woman or smaller-sized man. I don’t consider myself overly large at six feet tall and perhaps a hundred and sixty pounds soaking wet, but I am somewhat confident these won’t fit me.

  All the same, I thank whoever used to live here, glad they le
ft the towel and soap behind. Something that I can use, even if it isn’t food. I take my rags off and hang them on the rusty hook near the showers, or try to. There isn’t a lot of fabric left, and instead they end up as a pile on the floor. I shrug. I will need to come back for them and give them a clean with the soap. I did rinse them a few days ago in the lake, but the blood and rips in the pants need some attention. The shirt is unfortunately unsalvageable.

  I turn on the water and instantly need to jump out of the stream; the cold is too intense. Psyching myself up, I dive back in and feel the water numb my skin as I begin scrubbing with the soap. The trick to a cold shower is to rush through it. The sooner you are finished, the sooner you start warming back up. Sometimes, when the water is freezing, the sensation on your skin can even feel like it’s warming up. Rivers in Northern winters were like this and required extra caution. That feeling could lead you to relax, and soon your muscles wouldn’t work, and your body would shut down. I scrub faster still, remembering those warnings from mercenaries when I was very young.

  A moment later, I jump out of the stream, soap still liberally coating me. I feel like the water just scalded my left shoulder. White steam rises from green floor tiles half a foot in front of me. I stare at it. The mercenaries and Leah used to reminisce about hot showers, but growing up in the wilds and ruins, I’ve never experienced one before. In fact, a heavy rain is the closest I’ve come to the thing. If it’s a hot enough summer day, that’s almost pleasant. I put my hand under the water and have to pull it back out. How is this better than cold? There are two nozzles in front of me, and I only used the left when I turned it on. I creak open the second nozzle, being careful to reach around the scorching hot stream of water.

  I watch with widening eyes as the steam diminishes, and a moment later, vanishes altogether. My hand registers a lukewarm temperature. I fiddle with the two nozzles and manage to find a temperature that feels perfect, before I step back under the device.

  A sigh of pure pleasure escapes my throat. The heat begins permeating my body, and a tightness I never knew was there releases. I feel like I’ve been sick or injured and am finally healthy again. As I relish the sensation of muscles relaxing under the consistent application of warmth, I close my eyes, just imagining living like this—being a powerful ranker. I may just stand under this tap for a few hours—but my brain screams at me. I grudgingly pick up the forgotten soap and begin scrubbing with a bit of urgency. Water might be limited! I squeak the faucets off and swear I hear the same noise from my soul.

  Chapter 5

  August 22nd, 151 AR

  Jeff Smith

  After my depressingly brief hot shower, I slink back to claim my clothes and give them a good scrub. They’re missing. I check the floor by the other nearby hooks. I couldn’t have been mistaken about where I hung them, could I? Maybe I placed them in the locker.

  As I walk back into the changeroom, I realize that my skin feels extremely sensitive, almost raw. I feel a mild urge to scratch it right off, and I don’t love it, but have to admit that I would tolerate this feeling for another hot shower. I open the locker and don’t find my clothes, but I do find a strange bottle resting on top of the thin black material I found earlier. I am positive that it wasn’t there before, especially because it now rests atop the black pants and shirt.

  Is someone else in here with me? With that thought my heart leaps into my throat and I can feel every beat, as its tempo increases and threatens to make me sick.

  “Hello, is anyone out there?” I call, but then hear my own words echo back off the blackened grout and green ceramic tile. The silence after my shout is what I expected, but then where did this bottle come from? I snatch up the bottle and read the most prominent word aloud: “Moisturizer.” I purse my lips. Isn’t this some kind of skin cream?

  I depress the pump and feel the thick glob of salve on my hand. I try applying it on my face like Leah often did and immediately feel that annoying itch recede before vanishing entirely as I spread the miracle moisturizer into my skin.

  “Thank you for the moisturizer,” I whisper, despite the strangeness of the situation, hoping that the person hears me. The possibility that I am not alone, on second thought, begins to loosen a band around my heart—which immediately constricts again when I realize it might not be someone I know. It’s highly unlikely one of the mercs would stay hidden this long, right? So what intentions does this unseen individual have?

  “Do you have my clothes?” I ask after I am finished with the moisturizer. The locker beeps behind me, and I turn to see the green light flashing now. I open it to find the black suit of clothing. “You can’t be serious? These won’t fit me,” I groan, forgetting to hide my emotions from the unseen individual.

  The beep sounds again. I may be slightly aggravated, but my heart is also thrumming with the response. This just confirms that someone is watching me. How else could they hear what I ask?

  Jaw clenched, I pull on the shiny black garment, intent on proving to this person that these clothes are too small. Until they aren’t. I blink at the form-fitting material, which seems to expand and stretch to mold itself to my skin. What exactly is the purpose of clothing like this? It definitely doesn’t leave much to the imagination. . .

  Maybe the person is a bit of a pervert? That thought has me reconsidering my earlier worry of not knowing the individual. Leah had once told me never to speak with strangers, but I think that was just another way for her to insulate me from the outside. A way for her to keep me from learning how the real world works. I look around fearfully after the traitorous thought, but Leah doesn’t appear nearby.

  Well, whoever the person down here is, they haven’t chosen to show themselves. At this point, there isn’t any quick escape, at least not that I can find. If the person chooses to show themselves, I’ll steel my nerves and resolve to deal with them then. I swallow a lump in my throat and look down at myself in the tight clothing. All it’s really doing is showing off my clearly delineated ribs and lack of muscles. I can’t imagine anyone enjoys seeing an emaciated young man walking around barefoot.

  As I am leaving, I walk by a full-length mirror that is wide enough to reach from locker row to locker row. I hadn’t noticed it before, mostly because it is foggy, warped, and covered in grime. The reflection I see of myself is more of an outline with minimal clarity. The reason I find it this time, though, is a blue box-shaped light on one side. The light immediately draws my attention, but looking at it, I can’t tell what it could be for. Is it some sort of lighting that helps someone see themselves in the mirror? It isn’t helping now if that’s the case.

  I move closer and try rubbing the mirror’s surface, and while a great deal of dust transfers onto my hand, it is still warped and murky under the grime. Is that a word in the mirror? I can kind of make out blue glowing letters, though reading it is like trying to decipher the penmanship of a child.

  “Stetiis?” I enunciate the letters I think I am seeing. “Is that an E or an A? I guess it could be Statis?” I finish with a shrug. Too bad this place is in such a bad state.

  I walk back outside and hear my stomach growl, warning me that it’s empty and I will soon be forced to start consuming Dantian liquid. I return to the center of the room and the round table there. Sitting down, I rest my arms on the concrete surface, and the instant my skin makes contact with the tabletop, it lights up.

  “What in the Seven?!” I exclaim and leap up to my feet, expecting an attack. My eyes make out more blue lettering and I glance toward the locker room, before focusing on the table again. As I read my eyebrows climb as my mouth falls open.

  *Welcome to the Training Room [Purple]*

  Repairing

  The Training Room needs to clean and repair. Repairs have begun. During repairs, all access to the Delving Spire and the outside world are closed. No one but the owner will be allowed inside the Training Room during this time.

  Repair Time Remaining

  188 hours, 32 minutes, and
15 seconds.

  Under the time there is a long rectangular bar against the blue background. The bar is slowly filling with white. I recall the white grout, and toilet bowl. Is the bar somehow showing the progress of the restoration? Or is it supposed to be something else? I would estimate the amount of the white fill to be two percent at most.

  “Who cares about the bar!” I shout. This is amazing news and I pump my fists into the air. A sigh escapes me. With thirteen drops of liquid I should have enough liquid to survive the approximate eight days the room will take. On top of that, the place is repairing itself. Will that include clearing that rubble at the exit?

  “Is there no one else in here with me then?” I ponder aloud after reading the ‘no one but the owner’ line again. “Wait, how am I in here? I definitely don’t own this place.”

  “You are the only living being within the Training Room at this time, Master,” a robotic voice responds. The reply is accompanied by a featureless blue holographic head that appears above the table.

  “Urghh! Monster?!” I shriek in a very unmanly way, using the trained response from years in the wild, with mercenary guards. My reaction pushes my chair into a backward tilt, and my stomach does a backflip as I feel the piece of furniture overbalance. Luckily, the chair back takes most of the collision, and I manage to hold my head forward and avoid banging it on the concrete.

  I scramble to flip myself from the chair and then stand back up behind it. I study the disembodied blue head, with the chair acting as a barrier between us. It doesn’t seem like it is going to attack me. Did it just call me Master? That can’t be right. . .

  “What are you?” I whisper, my cheeks flushed from my earlier fall. I’m not sure why I’m embarrassed, but I’m not thrilled that the thing’s first impression of me was flying over a chair back.