Blessed Time: A LitRPG Adventure

by Cale Plamann

  “The offer for you to leave is still on the table.” He motioned with his spear at the party before pointing to the woods from which they’d come. “Do not bother Telivern. The stag is under my protection. If you harm it, I will send the daemons after you, and that will only end in blood and viscera.”

  Before Melvin or the rest of his adventuring party could reply, Brother Gage screamed incoherently in frustration and pointed a hand at Micah. Briefly, the priest’s outstretched hand glowed with the light of the rising sun before a beam of energy pulsed out from it, striking Micah in the stomach.

  Micah doubled over, the smell of burning flesh filling his nostrils as his HP dropped by a quarter. The beam stopped, leaving a dagger of fire and pain lodged in his gut. Without even thinking, Micah’s pain and anger merged with his tethers.

  He wasn’t sure if he subconsciously ordered the daemons to act, or if they moved in response to the emotional outburst. Regardless of the action that set them in motion, they rushed toward the adventurers with a terrible momentum while Micah frantically cast Augmented Mending on his burn.

  Gage was the first to die. In the midst of casting a spell, the Luoca landed on him, pinning him to the ground with an insectoid leg. For a brief second, all of the adventurers stared in shock at their impaled leader. Then the scorpion tail streaked downward, gouging a hole through his chest.

  The man began to melt. The definition on his extremities blurred together as the corrosive aura of Elsewhere entered his body through the stinger. It pumped into the gasping man like venom as it reduced his lungs and organs to a puddle of semi-organic sludge in moments.

  “Brian!” Melvin’s shout broke the clearing’s silence.

  Gongo and the female caster both targeted spells at the Luoca. A hand made of earth reached toward the daemon while a series of ice shards slammed into it from the other side. Flavicus and Alan, the two heavily built warriors of the party, charged toward the creature, their sword and glaive poised to strike.

  The Luoca didn’t even notice. It whipped its stinger from the priest, spraying the two charging warriors with his still-warm blood. Gongo blanched, his hands trembling as he began mumbling to himself and backed from the fight.

  A Brensen dove from the sky toward Melvin. The fighter tucked himself into a roll, barely escaping the vulture’s skeletal claws as they dug furrows in the dead earth where he’d been standing.

  Jonah hopped forward with a grunt, his wooden leg sinking deep into the loose dirt. Extending his rapier, he swiped it through the air, firing Air Knife after Air Anife from the blade at the daemon.

  Micah squinted. The visual distortion created by the spells were small, tight, and fast. Quickly, Jonah wove a web of mana-infused air, slapping and battering the more powerful daemon long enough for Melvin to escape. Clearly, Jonah had all but mastered the spell. The speed, efficiency, and power of his casting were too much for any other explanation.

  Taking advantage of his distraction, a pair of Onkerts slammed into Jonah, knocking him to the ground. With an agility that belied his crippled appearance, he rolled to the side and rose up from the ground on a burst of Air mana.

  His rapier flashed, taking an eye from one of the daemons while Melvin sprinted under a wild swing from the creature, his sword slashing across its hamstring. It stumbled forward as its legs suddenly lost the ability to support its weight. Jonah landed on the daemon, cracking his peg leg into its collarbone. With a quick pivot, he drew his sword across the monster’s throat.

  Micah winced as the tether connecting him to the Onkert snapped in tandem with Augmented Mending restoring his last missing hit point. He thrust with his spear, triggering the enchantments and firing a spike of air pressure at Jonah. Using the breathing room created by distracting the spellblade, Micah prepared himself to cast a more powerful spell.

  The man’s rapier blurred as Jonah coated it in the high pressure of an Air Knife and intercepted Micah’s attack. Micah’s eyebrows went up when the spell absorbed his attack in a display of pinpoint control over both mana and air pressure.

  The other Onkert took advantage of Jonah’s distraction to kick Melvin. The warrior’s mouth transformed into an “O” of surprise as the blow knocked the breath from him and sent the man flying across the clearing.

  Micah finished casting Poison Fog, grimacing at the unfamiliar feel of the spell. A billowing cloud of greenish-yellow smoke appeared around him and began to descend on the clearing, obscuring his view of the invaders. One of the adventurers screamed in alarm—Micah couldn’t quite make out which one, but it hardly mattered.

  He closed his eyes, relying upon the sight of the daemons as they pursued the humans through the opaque mist. Micah’s senses filled the Luoca as it chased after the two warriors that had rushed to Brother Gage’s rescue. Both of their weapons—Alan’s gigantic sword and Flavicus’ glaive—lay on the ground, bisected by the daemon’s wings.

  The men choked and stumbled as they ran, their high Body attributes letting them resist but not ignore the fog. Micah frowned sightly when the Luoca slowed—like a hound savoring the chase, it sought to prolong its pursuit. He pursed his lips. Honestly? That was probably why they were still alive. He doubted that either of the men could have stopped the wing strokes that had destroyed their weapons from cutting deeper. It easily could have slashed them in half with the same motion.

  Flavicus slammed his foot into a rock and gasped in pain, taking in a lungful of the gas. Almost immediately, he fell to the ground, hands clawing at his throat. Without slowing, the Luoca thrust its tail out and speared the huge man through the chest.

  It continued after Alan, moving at a leisurely lope. On the ground nearby lay Melvin’s corpse, his face bloated and lips blue. The man’s Agility-based build might have been useful against the ponderous Onkert, but his slight frame was unable to fight off the heavy toxic clouds.

  Alan veered to the side. Lying on the ground was the female caster, her chest barely moving. Her robe was ripped, exposing her bare legs to the stalking daemon.

  Micah nodded as he saw the source of the rip: a strip of cloth covering her mouth, soaked in an indeterminate liquid. Quick thinking on the caster’s part. Without some sort of filter, there was no way she could survive the roiling clouds of miasma that filled the clearing.

  The huge man reached down and slung the woman over his shoulder while the Luoca looked on in amusement. Micah shook his head as he paced them in the air above the cloud.

  “Quit playing with your food,” he muttered, reaching out and touching the burning chain that connected him to the daemon. “I can’t have witnesses, but you don’t need to drag it out. Kill them and be quick about it.”

  The Luoca snorted and pounced forward, its human face locked in a sneer as its two front legs punched through Alan’s calves and into the ground beneath. The man screamed, his abruptly halted momentum sending the caster flying. Her body landed ten or so paces ahead of the Luoca.

  “Fuck,” the man said, his eyes wide as he twisted his torso to take in the monster that had doomed him.

  The daemon casually removed Alan’s head with a wing before walking over to the spellcaster’s unconscious body. With a single thrust of its tail, it caved in the back of her skull. Unhurriedly, it continued strolling out of the mist, following the sound of the other spellcaster, Gongo, panting and stumbling as he ran.

  Pain erupted from Micah’s throat. He blinked, returning his vision to his own body. Jonah Baird, the crippled spellblade, stood just outside the poison fog, a blurred sphere around his head from the Air Supply spell proof of the resourceful man’s survival. In his hand, another Air Knife hovered, prepared to finish the job if the first had failed.

  Micah’s hand came away from his throat, covered in his own blood. He tried to pull in a breath, only to be rewarded with a wet, whistling noise from his wrecked windpipe. A mortal wound. Panic threatened to overwhelm him, but Micah fought it down, instead reaching for a ring he kept on his right hand.

&nb
sp; “And so he falls,” Jonah said darkly, mainly to himself but loud enough for Micah to hear. “A formidable daemonlord to be sure, but in the end, he was as human as the rest of us. One targeted spell is all it takes to bring down a caster. Without his breath, he can’t cast spells. If you catch them unaware, even a daemonlord in his tower will die just as easily as the rest of us.”

  Micah brushed the tethers connecting him to the surviving Brensen as he poured mana into the ring, causing the enchantments inscribed in the chip of amethyst to glow. His vision narrowed and his body screamed for oxygen, but Micah didn’t let it distract him.

  He’d suffered too much and come too far. He’d defeated men much greater than this motley band of adventurers. There was too much left to do.

  His vision dimmed.

  Micah redoubled the mana flow into the ring. The inscriptions grew hot as he overwhelmed them, but the onslaught of magic did its job. The pain in his throat dulled. More than anything, it itched as the skin and tissue began to reknit itself.

  This battlefield would not be his grave.

  Next time, he would save them all. Next time, Esther would live. Next time, he and Jo would actually be able to make something together without misunderstandings or interruptions.

  Next time.

  The ring shattered on his hand, cutting and scarring him, but the spell was finished. His throat was still ragged and bloody, but air passed through it once more.

  Immediately, Micah cast Augmented Mending on himself. The emergency enchanted ring had limited power, but it was perfect for situations like the one that the spellblade had forced him into. Many tried to injure or silence casters first. The ability to cast a robust healing spell on yourself without speaking or moving was an essential survival tool.

  The remaining Brensen descended upon Jonah. Without both of his legs, he didn’t have the mobility to escape. Three slashes of their claws later, his shredded body adorned the clearing floor.

  Gongo’s wet, gurgling scream in the forest marked his end as the Luoca caught up with him. Micah sighed and entered his tower once more.

  He’d have to leave. They’d found him here once; it was entirely possible they could do it again. Next time, they might bring a higher-level subjugation team or hostages. His very presence was putting Telivern and his family at risk.

  After a couple hours of packing his meager belongings, Micah mounted the Luoca and directed it to fly. He didn’t give it particular directions. Just a general idea. North.

  The aura of Elsewhere pouring off of the daemon almost comforted him, cradling his tired and injured body as the daemon’s great wings flapped and they covered a day’s march each hour of flight. At some point, he went to sleep, only waking up when they were deep in the mountains.

  A flick of his eyes and a touch of the tether and they were beneath a rock overhang near a waterfall. It would be as good a place as any to practice his spells and wait for the timer to run down.

  The days passed swiftly. At first, some predators approached his hiding spot, but the aura around him and his daemons quickly dissuaded them. After a short amount of time, the vegetation around him died and all of the creatures in the valley learned to avoid him.

  The silence suited Micah as he cast spell after spell in an attempt to push up his skill and spell levels for the next iteration. Before long, the walls of his overhang were scarred from constant magical abuse as he spent days at a time without the sleep or food he no longer really needed, practicing his skills all the while.

  Finally, the day came. In relief, he invoked Blessed Return, eager to escape the doomed timeline and try again.

  The magic took hold of him, and he began retracing his steps faster and faster, his actions and surroundings a blur as he moved backwards through both his successes and mistakes.

  Then he stopped. Micah and his surroundings were frozen. Bugs trapped in amber on the empty plains of Elsewhere.

  The mist around him roiled and backed away from Micah as a great hand reached out from nothingness toward him. He remembered this moment. It was when he’d been broken, body and mind, after he’d foolishly thrown himself into Elsewhere.

  He watched, unmoving, as the hand grasped him about the torso and pulled. His vision erupted in a kaleidoscope and the world spun. Then the sensations were gone. He was sitting in a gaudy and slightly overstuffed chair.

  “Micah Silver,” a strangely familiar feminine voice spoke behind him. “You’ve bumbled back and forth through time aimlessly three times now. I think it’s only fair that you and I have a little chat. I’m sure you have plenty of questions that you think need answers.”

  52

  Conversation Over Tea

  “Oh, sit down.” Her voice was pleasant and disarming, but with an undertone of command as it halted Micah’s half-rise from the chair.

  A woman in her early thirties entered his vision from the side. The first thing Micah noticed was that she glowed faintly. Her shoulder-length silver hair framed pleasant, if nondescript, features as she carried a tray laden with an intricately painted porcelain teapot and four cups.

  She was slightly taller than Micah, her face filled with a matronly smile that looked out of place on her younger features. Humming quietly to herself, she set the tray down on the short table in front of Micah and began pouring the steaming brown liquid into each of the four cups. One by one, she put the cups in front of the slightly tacky and overdecorated chairs.

  “What’s going on?” Micah asked the woman as she took a seat to his right. The room was rather large but spartan. The walls were wood and the floor was covered with carpet, but beyond those details, there was little else of note. It was lit, but from no obvious source, and the only entrance was an archway that revealed nothing but foreboding mist and darkness.

  There wasn’t even any furniture other than the table and the chairs. The more Micah looked around the room, the more it appeared to exist for no other reason than to serve as a comfortable but bare meeting place.

  The woman picked up the teacup with both hands and brought it to her mouth, blowing on the steaming liquid before taking a sip. A moment later, a look of absolute joy blossomed on her face. She set the cup back down before answering Micah.

  “I think you’ve guessed who I am,” she said, smiling at him slightly.

  “Mursa,” Micah responded, the word a statement rather than a question. Between her appearance and the strangeness of the encounter, there couldn’t be any other explanation.

  “Very good!” Her laughter was like a clear chime. Beautiful, but at the same time, Micah couldn’t help but notice the slightly condescending tone to her voice. Like he was a prized pet that had just performed a particularly clever trick.

  “See, Ankros?” she called out to the empty archway. “I told you that he was one of mine.”

  Micah turned to look at the entryway. Something stepped through. The breath was knocked out of him as Micah tried to comprehend the terrible power roiling off the being that suddenly shared the room with them.

  For a brief moment, it was like staring into the heart of a star. Energy flashed and writhed chaotically, constantly changing yet older than mana itself. The air seemed to leave the room as the entity poured itself inside. The liquid fire flowed around Micah and pressed him into his seat before coalescing into the form of a large, well-muscled man.

  Micah let out the breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Sweat covered his body as he tried to draw air in with ragged gasps. The man tossed his head, a mop of dark, unruly hair fluttering slightly in some unseen wind.

  “Mursa,” Ankros’ deep voice rumbled as he walked across the empty room with great and purposeful strides, “my choices are not stupid. They just seek to prove themselves in combat. The stupid ones take on challenges above their skill. They don’t last long.” The god nodded at Micah as he took a seat to his left. “Micah.” A great dark hand reached out and brought the teacup to his lips. A moment later, he sighed in appreciation.

>   “Even if this was only an excuse to get us all to incorporate”—he flashed a smile of startlingly white teeth at the goddess—“I have to say that I approve. It’s easy to lose yourself in the mists and forget about simple pleasures like a cup of jasmine tea.”

  “Drink your tea, Micah.” Mursa smiled his way as she picked up her own cup. “We still have to wait for my other brother before we can begin, and he’s been a bit ornery lately. I wouldn’t be surprised if he leaves us waiting on purpose.”

  “I am not ornery,” a clipped and annoyed voice said from the entryway. “I am simply precisely on time. It is not my fault that neither of you can keep a schedule.”

  Micah turned in his chair to look at the newcomer. A tall, thin blonde man wearing an immaculate suit walked to the open chair. Much like Mursa, he seemed to glow from within. Unlike her, he didn’t carry an ounce of warmth or cheer.

  “Ankros,” the man said, shaking his head at the other god, “your aura is leaking again. You’re probably suffocating the poor mortal you’re inflicting this entire charade upon.”

  “It builds character,” the huge black god said as he grinned back. “Plus, he’s already been to Elsewhere and back. A couple glimpses of little old me isn’t going to shatter his psyche. He’s a big boy.”

  “Now that Luxos is here”—Mursa smiled at the two men before turning back to Micah—"I think it’s about time we explained things to Mr. Silver. He’s made it much further than any of us expected, and it only seems fair that we let him know the rules of the game he’s playing.”

  “Wait.” Micah frowned, looking at the three most powerful gods of Karell as they bantered lightly. “You didn’t expect me to make it this far? What did you think was going to happen?”

  “I thought you were going to die in the first invasion,” Ankros responded flippantly as he took another sip of tea. He turned to Mursa. “You know, Mursa”—he gestured at the teacup, tiny in his huge hand—“this is delicious, but I can’t help but feel like we need some food to complement it. Maybe like those little sandwiches you brought last time.”