Coast on Fire: An Apocalyptic LitRPG (The System Apocalypse Book 5)

by Tao Wong

  “Redeemer?”

  “I’m going in. You guys are going to have get there yourselves. I recommend running.” I stand, eyeing the distance.

  Ali’s already flying forward as fast as he can, understanding what I intend to do. Hopscotching my way there is faster and cheaper for me. A thought and the Mana Battery floods my body, dumping hundreds of Mana points into me for the upcoming fight.

  “Redeemer, you can’t do this. We need you—” Alvarez says.

  “You need me out there,” I interrupt, waiting for Ali. “Your men can’t take him. I can. Throw the rest at the Oracle. I’ll slow him down at the least.”

  “Your orders—”

  I don’t answer, instead activating Blink Step when Ali hits the maximum distance. I land and run, Sabre boosting my movement speed as I cover the distance to my target, intent on conserving as much as I can. Four hundred plus Mana right now. Barely enough to do anything.

  “Redeemer! You are defying your orders—”

  The communicator cuts off with a thought and I Blink Step to get closer. I’m moving as fast as I can. No more worries, no more concerns and half-doubts if I’m doing this right. Just the run, the necessity of battle.

  The soldier is tossed aside, his body halved but still alive. He’s screaming, struggling to crawl back to his body, when the Jarack crosses the distance to the healer and mage. Blood keeps blossoming from the wounds across W’mee’s body as bullets tear open wounds, beams burn flesh, and spells cut into him. But it’s all surface, nothing going deep. He’s torn into our defensive line, well behind where our teams have dug in. The remaining members of the shattered line fire against those who try to take advantage of the gap while W’mee keeps the reinforcements from arriving.

  W’mee of the Three Sands, Heretic of the Dawn, Slayer of Grayak Scorpions and Master of the Yellow Pit (Level 18 Singer of the Thrice-Dipped Blades)

  HP: 39403 /42800

  MP: 283/1780

  Conditions: Skin of Basalt, The Sands Blessing, The Desert’s Son (Transformation)

  “W’mee!” I roar, punching the volume up on my speakers as I finally arrive.

  The Jarack pauses, staring at me as I stride forward, slowing down now that I’ve gotten his attention.

  “Redeemer!” he howls, ignoring the others as his eyes narrow on me. He runs forward, taking my challenge as he laughs in his cackling, insane way.

  “I need information on that Sands Blessing.”

  “On it, boy-o. I’m getting data now, I’ll get you my guesses when I can.”

  Three blades against my one. I could conjure the other five, but I never keep them up for long, the cost on my Mana Regeneration too high. Better to use them and make them disappear, fight in bursts. I need to keep him busy, distracted. I start the dance with the sonic pulser and mini-missiles loaded with grey goo, all meant to slow down my opponent. The pulser makes W’mee growl, the missiles are cut out of the air long before they reach him, and the couple that do land are unable to do much to slow him down.

  “All combatants in this area, back off. I don’t want to get shot,” I snarl over the comms as a couple of shots graze by me, one bouncing off Sabre’s shielding.

  The shooting slows down, then he’s here, blades whistling. My first block is wrong, catching the attack too far from the tip and allowing the whip to wrap over my sword to hammer into the Shield. My shield drops by nearly a third from just that aborted attack. The last blade luckily lands on the ground, missing me and my Shield by inches.

  I see his hand swing sideways and I throw myself into a jump, spinning away before I’m wrapped up by the blades or have my foot chopped off. Within seconds, the blades are spinning again, coming back toward me as I land and dash forward. A side of a building is torn apart, the blades ripping through unenhanced stone and steel with casual ease. Even as it does so, W’mee changes the angle of his cut, catching a sniper and killing him.

  No time to think, I form blades from my Skill, spinning my arms and setting up their angles, my eyes tight with focus. A calm settles over me. A battle calm, where my mind runs clear and clean, while around it, the raging fires of my temper burn. Clarity, anger, and speed. I grin beneath my helmet, feeling alive as I dance on the edge of oblivion.

  The Jarack’s blades clash with mine, slithering and twisting as he attempts to cut through my floating ones, his movements hampered by their arcs and their sudden appearance and disappearance. But I can’t get close to him either, those blades twisting and turning like a blender blade around his body.

  “What is this…?” W’mee howls, flicking his hand.

  Three blades ripple, dancing and lashing out like snakes even as fires form and are expelled by their tips. I’m long gone, stepping aside and discarding my summoned weapons. All the while, I’m firing the Inlin and my missiles every moment I can. No grenades though. Nothing that would hide me and take away his focus. That’s not my job, not right now.

  The Sands Blessing

  Effect: Passive Buff. Provides a 11(?) increase in regeneration and 43(?)% increase in resistances while in suitable, desert-like atmospheric conditions.

  “I’m barely scratching him,” I snarl at Ali.

  My biggest gun is gone, my Mana potions unable to be used further to give me a boost. A missed block, a blade sneaking between my wall of swords, and my shield drops by a quarter. I fire the Inlin, armor-piercing bullets digging divots into his flesh. Another cut and yank, my sword ripped from my hand. I let him have it, calling another as I duck forward.

  “I’m working on it!” Ali says, his voice tinged with a touch of desperation.

  “Redeemer, hold him for one more minute. Reinforcements incoming.”

  A quick step, one that I didn’t anticipate, and W’mee kicks me, throwing me into a building and out. My shield flares, Sabre showing nearly eighty percent loss of shield integrity. I’m good and he’s obviously not used to the Honor Guard’s fighting methods, but I can’t stay on the defensive only. Even as he crashes through the building, playing ugly brown monster to the building’s structure, I’m desperately trying to figure out what to do.

  “No can do,” I grunt, making a decision.

  I run forward as he exits the crumbling building, the momentary rush through the structure forcing the Jarack to stop swinging his blades. Just long enough for me to get close as he starts up those metallic shredders.

  He snarls, blocking my first swing. Then the second. And the third. I stick close to him, taking clawed attacks on the shield, on Sabre’s armor when it fails, as I refuse to let him gain distance. I twist and dodge, stabbing his arm and legs, my blades hovering around me as he keeps attempting to back away. I’m doing little to truly hurt him, but each blow, blocked or successful, leaves a tinge of blue ice.

  Freezing Blade, each attack slowing down the asshole. But it’s not enough, not by far. Even after ten strikes, he’s only a third slower. With a snarl, he glows, heat radiating from his body. Thankfully, the ice along his wounds does not dissipate. Instead, the heat burns Sabre’s armor, making me squint and sweat as asphalt liquefies. But it doesn’t kill me, doesn’t slow me down. Resistances cut both ways, and like him, I can take it. Ali, in the corner of my eyes, shoots straight up as he attempts to avoid the Skill, his Spirit body crisping while less fortunate, less mobile souls burn.

  Body of Sun

  Effect: Channels the power of the desert sun through the caster’s body. Deals 200 base heat damage per second.

  Duration: Channeled

  Red lights scream as Sabre seizes up, joints and armor melting away. The Jarack bounces back and away, finally free of me, his blades flicking close to lick at the mess that is my PAV. I snarl, making the decision to store the mecha once again. The action, the sudden change, and a twist of my upper body saves my heart, leaving a light wound across the chest. The moment the mecha is gone, along with my helmet, the temperature soars and the accumulated sweat evaporates as my skin blisters. Even as I shield my eyes, his blades plu
nge into my body, tearing it apart and sending me sprawling.

  Thankfully, the Skill cuts off, though the remaining heat is still high enough to cook my flesh as I peel myself off the ground. So few blue dots in my minimap. His Skill might be over, but I’m too far away from him now to attack. I can’t hold him, not much longer…

  “You did well, Redeemer,” W’mee says, cackling. “But you are no match for me.”

  “No…” I cough, my throat dry, my head pounding as I realize my Mana reserves are barely more than a hundred. “No, I’m not.”

  W’mee’s hand drops, the weapon swinging down, three blades glowing red with fire coming to end me. I can’t beat him. I never could. But that was never the point. As the blades whistle through the air, I Blink Step, taken high above by Ali.

  Spells and artillery, mortars and potions fall. The combined attacks of dozens of stragglers, of people called from battle all around, splash against his body. I spin, twisting to look down at the fast-approaching body, my sword held out before me.

  This fight was never just mine. It couldn’t be. No matter how strong a single person can be, a hundred scratches are enough. He knows it. Should have known it. But in the heat of battle, fighting someone who refuses to back down, who refuses to fall, who uses skills and Spells he has never met before, W’mee forgets. Blade plunging through the creature’s shoulder, mass and momentum driving it through the monster and sending us to the ground, my shin and arm crack under the sudden pressure. The other conjured blades follow, plunging deep into the monster, one accidentally punching through me and pinning us together.

  Pain, as we struggle. The sword pinning us together is dismissed before it tears me apart as the Jarack twists and attempts to scramble away. I hang onto my original blade, stubbornly clinging to it as the creature’s high health now works against it, the blade unable to rip free. I keep him pinned, focusing on keeping him still as the attacks fall. Pain. More pain as flesh tears, bones crack, and blood boils. And blessed relief, as healing spells reach me, a never-ending torture as my body seesaws between the two.

  Pain, in my body, in my head as I drain my strength, my Mana, my stamina to the extreme. The attack cuts deep, focused within the creature and unable to escape. As it twists, the sword slips and turns, facing away and finally pulling free. No more time, so I take the risk and release one last Blade Strike, my Mana insufficient and so the Skill takes from my flesh, my body. An explosive blast from another spell tears through me, cutting through my weakened body and throwing me away, my arm severed.

  Then the ground, gooey and melted and hot. I skid, body creating a wave of asphalt that sticks and hurts and burns. And then darkness.

  Chapter 17

  New arms are weird. Having them regrow my lost arm in the Shop was the most expedient way of getting myself fixed after I came to, but it doesn’t feel right. Standing to the side of the Shop interface, I roll my shoulders again while I wait for the arm to feel better. Says something about the things the System probably does to us that after a few hours, even a completely new arm is forgotten and accepted.

  Fighting the rest of the battle, once I woke up, with one arm was a new and interesting experience. Thankfully, the main fight was over by that point, the Oracle forced to pull back after she was once again severely injured. This time around, she triggered a short-range teleportation, most likely bought from the Shop. It wasn’t long after that we learnt that she left the planet. I guess no matter the level of loyalty, watching two other Master Class individuals die was more than a sufficient deterrent.

  Once their Master Class support was down, the Zarrie pulled back, intent on fighting again another time. That’s when the other portion of Miller’s plan kicked in, the resistance fighters, the members of the 1st Special Forces group, and the vanguard of the marines making their presence know. Pinned between the three forces that were quite happy to rain long-range destruction down on the Zarrie, things got pretty bloody, or so I was told. Rather than risk even more loss of life, Miller let the Zarrie forces call a ceasefire when they sent a banner of truce.

  I later learn that the marines had an even nastier time in their own fights. With the lines drawn for so long, their initial push was through entrenched positions. If it wasn’t for the fact that the marines seemed to have geared their squads for hard and fast fights with specialized melee, ranged, and mage teams, they might not have managed to push through.

  For all that we might have disagreements, Miller is a damn professional. It’s only after the fight, during the ceasefire, that I learn that the Zarrie had sent more than a few assassins after him and the command structure. Luckily, the one thing California isn’t lacking is actors. I’m still not sure I’d have made the call he did, but it certainly allowed him to run the battle without major interference.

  One of the few silver linings is the sheer volume of titles being awarded. Ali had a good time telling me about them. Some of the more memorable ones include Mikito’s Blood Warden, a couple of Last Stands, a Lord of Guts and Glory, and amusingly, Murphy’s Law Incarnated.

  Right now, Miller, Wier, and a bunch of other politicians and interest groups are busy talking it up. Since we’re just allies, they’ve declined our participation in these talks, leaving Sam to listen in. Lana’s presence was declined, a few groups citing her unfair use of Charisma to influence matters. Rather than kick up a fuss, we stayed out of it. Luckily, Major Ruka has arrived, happy to be paid to play Galactic consultant.

  “Still don’t see why they wanted a Hakarta and not me,” Ali grumbles, staring in the direction where the meeting continues to be held.

  “Probably because they could do without your sarcasm.” Grunting, I shake my head and stretch, feeling my muscles shift as I marvel at the lack of pain.

  In the corner of my eyes, I once more stare at the slowly blinking icon before I decide to acknowledge it.

  Congratulations! You’ve reached Level 50!

  Attributes automatically assigned. 3 additional attributes available to be assigned.

  You may now choose a Master Class.

  Would you like to do so?

  (Y/N)

  Finally. I’m tempted to look at the list, but doing so will start a process I can’t halt. Frustratingly enough, I’m unlikely to have a chance to choose anything really special, anything that will give me an edge, like the Honor Guard Class. But as Ali pointed out, I’m already broken enough as it is.

  “John?” Lana calls, reappearing behind me.

  She smiles slightly when I turn to face her, somehow having managed to not only change into new clothing but clean up. The simple cream blouse and yoga pants do wonders to show off her voluptuous form, making me drink in the view. It’s only the second calling of my name—or maybe third—that I answer her.

  “Sorry. What?”

  “How’s the new arm?” Lana says, wrapping an arm around my waist and sneaking in a kiss before I can answer. There are still shadows under her eyes, a tightness in the hug that speaks of her holding back grief.

  “Good. Feels a little strange still, but it’s fine.” I give her another squeeze.

  Still, for how relaxed things are, something feels off. Frowning, I tilt my head from side to side, wondering what’s bugging me. Lana’s the one to voice the problem first.

  “Where’re the pups and Roland?” Lana speaks softly, eyebrows drawing together. For a moment she focuses then steps away from me, a hand materializing her shotgun as she opens her mouth to say something.

  “Well, I am glad to hear that you are better…” The woman who walks over is seven feet tall, purple hair slicked back in a pixie cut that shows off coral-like ears and slitted yellow eyes. Her nose is almost non-existent, just a pair of nostrils with the slightest almost beak-like overhang.

  Ayuri d’Malla of the Dawn, Breaker of the Sixth Legion, Hero of the Sixth Kumma Wars, Mistress of Knives, Bloodflower, Slayer of Kumma, Goblins, Mizza… (Level 42 Erethran Champion)

  HP: 9830/9830

 
; MP: 4740/4740

  Conditions: Buffs. LOT OF BUFFS.

  “Ali…?” I note the sudden flash of information above her, the lack of full disclosure as Ali translates the information quickly.

  Behind Ayuri comes a pair of just normal Erethran Honor Guards, though both are close to hitting the Level cap. A single male and female companion to Ayuri.

  “Redeemer of the Dead. What an interesting title,” Ayuri says, tapping her lips.

  “What did you do to my pets?” Lana growls, stopped from raising her shotgun by my hand on her arm.

  We don’t stand a chance, not against Ayuri herself and definitely not with two of her friends. Better to play nice. Especially since they don’t seem to be directly aggressive. Yet.

  “Oh, they’re fine. We had to put them in stasis as they refused to let us in,” Ayuri says with a smile to Lana, her eyes flicking to the woman before dismissing the redhead as a threat. “We’re not interested in your petty squabbles.”

  “What are you interested in?” I ask, knowing the answer even as I do so. There’s only one reason for the Erethran to be here, considering we’re nearly at the opposite end of the System Galaxy. Even for a new Dungeon World, they aren’t going to send a Champion all the way out here. At least, not just for the Dungeon World.

  “You, of course, Redeemer. Imagine our surprise when we began to receive updates about how a member of the Honor Guard was gaining titles on the new Dungeon World. Even more so when he kept gaining Levels at an astounding rate. And then of course, he became a settlement owner…” Ayuri shakes her head. “Well, it was such an interesting piece of news. Considering the few we authorized to visit were still on the first ships.”

  “Well, about that…” I pause as Ayuri’s initially benign, if slightly intimidating, visage changes, going flat.

  “No need to explain, Redeemer. We know what happened. What we’re interested in is what will happen,” Ayuri says, closing the distance between us so fast I don’t even see her move. Even Mikito with Haste isn’t that fast. Androgynous body inches from mine, she looms over me, those tiny pupils judging me. “Were you perhaps considering becoming a Champion? Or an Honor Guard General?”