Burning Starlight [Science-Fantasy Cultivation LitRPG] (Book 1 Complete!)

Just like before, Kitt took her time and stayed with Blake as he ate and rested. She did her level best to repair his armor while she was present. Even so, she ended up leaving earlier than intended, as the additional sub-core meant more activity within the mindscape of the Leviathan. She couldn't be gone too long.

Not to mention she had another guest to continue speaking with.

"You didn't tell him about me," her alter said when she returned. She was an echo; a remnant of a past Kitt couldn't remember. She called herself Medea, which struck Kitt as sounding a bit self-important, but Kitt wouldn't deny her the name. She liked her own, after all, and it was objectively a bit silly.

"He had his own situation to deal with," Kitt replied. With a minor effort she conjured forth the image of a table set for two with tea and snacks. Medea had manifested as a humanoid, and so Kitt reluctantly began to craft a similar avatar for herself. Where Medea was dressed for a night on the town, Kitt borrowed from Blake's practicality for her own appearance.

The avatar took shape with methodical care. She wore dark cargo pants, sturdy boots, and a fitted black t-shirt bearing a stylized pixel-art goat's head. Over it all she wore an open leather jacket with a puffy fur collar. That detail was stolen shamelessly from Medea, but Kitt didn't mind borrowing it. If they were fragments of the same being, what was hers was technically Kitt's too.

Auburn hair dropped in a straight line to her jaw, accenting a face cut with sharp lines and lit by feline green eyes that shimmered with Leviathan light. Black cat ears pushed up through the hair, twitching at phantom sounds in this conjured space, while a matching tail traced a loose arc behind her. On her left arm, a serpent tattoo curled and struck along her skin, rendered forever mid-strike.

She settled into the chair across from Medea, and the contrast between their appearances felt appropriate.

"Actually," Kitt said, pouring them both tea. "It's a bit eerie how similar our situations are at the moment."

She took the time to explain the situation. Medea might once have been part of her, but this echo was independent and didn't share her experiences. When she was done, the other woman looked more than a little concerned.

"The Demiurge doesn't often dole out titles or abilities designed to directly affect a person's path. It's dangerous. Especially like you're describing—using someone's own psyche against them."

"I agree," Kitt replied. "But Blake is strong. That title was granted to him by an Archon who directly oversaw his integration. I can only assume it, like the rest of the titles he recieved, was meant to help him thrive after being ripped from his homeworld. I have to believe Blake will figure out how to make use of Rax's gnosis to get stronger."

"You have faith in your new host," Medea said warmly. "It's good to see things are working out well for you."

"Well enough," Kitt replied. "No telling if it might have been smoother if my head wasn't full of holes when he and I bonded, but still."

Medea took a sip of tea, raising an eyebrow at Kitt over her cup in challenge. Kitt knew that Medea was convinced that her decisions were correct, even if they had deeply damaged their Psycheform. But she also hadn't gotten to that part of her story yet, so Kitt remained less certain.

Thus far, Medea had only illuminated a single year out of over four years that Kitt was missing. It was a fascinating story, learning how her previous host had taken a copy of her and fashioned himself into some sort of secret agent working to foment rebellion against his kingdom. Kitt's overall interest was marred by remembering that he had cast her aside to do so, leaving her stranded within as some sort of diversion for anyone trying to use her to get at him.

He had turned her into a glorified autopilot for a killing machine he was too weak to pilot himself, all so he could play at being a spy. Hearing it all years after the fact, and with months spent with Blake—an actual partner, unlike Vylaas—Kitt wasn't particularly impressed.

The two spoke at length, with Medea begining to fill in details about the next year missing from Kitt's life. It was more of the same—interesting but, knowing her role in the story, ultimately unfulfilling. She was actually happy to be interrupted by the Leviathan's signalling that it was ready to continue working after incorporating the latest cleansed sub-core.

She slipped smoothly out of her humanoid form and back into the floating wisp she defaulted to within the Leviathan's mindscape. Once more she felt the weight of the connection with the Leviathan as it thrummed back to life. Her senses fragmented, her perspective shifted, and within moments she was ready to begin her work again.

She spared one final thought for Blake before dedicating herself fully to her task. She hoped he was doing well out there.

Blake was on fire.

That was not, as a rule, a state he preferred to be in.

With a surge of Intent he shaped a burst of [Telekinesis] that erupted out from his skin. Despite his best efforts, he nearly damaged the joints of his armor in the process, but he got the result he was looking for. The fire clinging to his torso and arm peeled away, hurled outward in an orange sheet that splattered against the far wall before dying. His suit had blackened where the flames touched it, material puckered and melted over his ribs. Chemical accelerant stench scraped the back of his throat.

There were two left. Not Ferroghests. Not Skitterers. Something worse—twisted parodies of human form, blackened leathery flesh fused with crude mechanical parts. Thick tubes ran from back-mounted packs to nozzles grafted onto their right forearms. Three of their kind already lay in pieces around the corridor. These last two held their ground, sickly blue cores pulsing.

The closer one raised its arm, a flickering pilot light visible near the end of one of the tubes that ran through the limb like veins.

Blake broke right, [Unfettered Stride] finding him purchase on the curved corridor wall. Mana surged into his legs as the world tilted. He ran parallel to the floor while liquid fire spat from the creature's outstretched arm, scorching the metal plates where he'd stood a second before.

"You know…" Rax's voice drifted from the recesses of his mind. "I don't like those things."

Blake kept his focus on the creature below, even as part of him marveled that the system-ghost was finally saying something he could agree with. He was going to try something new with this one—his previous experiment with firing a Recoil round into the fuel line had proven messier than he liked. This time, he extended his left hand, concentrating his Intent into a singular point of pressure. The feed tube on the creature's arm—unarmored, vulnerable. He squeezed.

There was a wet crunch, the tube buckled, and then ruptured. The creature froze as its own weapon bathed its chest and head in volatile fluid. One small nudge of the creature's arm from Blake's [Telekinesis] and the pilot light did the rest. Whatever reservoir of fuel the thing's body contained was compromised. The techno-zombie disappeared in a silent, violent conflagration, consumed by white-hot fire. Its shriek lasted only a moment—a bubbling hiss swallowed by the roar of its own demise.

One left.

This one backed away, spraying wide arcs of fire to keep Blake at a distance. Blake dropped from the wall, landing in a crouch behind the smoldering remains of a bulkhead. The heat pressed in. He couldn't stay here.

He focused on a loose panel of decking twenty feet away. He timed his movement carefully to avoid the flames and slid into place next to it. With a surge of mana he tore it free with telekinesis and pulled it up and over him. It was a bit awkward, but it would work. He rose, using [Telekinesis] to affix the metal slab to his forearm. Holding it like a riot shield, he advanced.

Fire washed over his makeshift protection, turning the edges cherry-red. The metal groaned, and Blake could feel his arm heating up even through his armor. He adjusted the plate, holding it in place a few inches in front of his arm instead of directly touching him. The cost was higher, but the chance of getting scorched was much lower. Blake pushed forward step by grinding step, the world distorted and wavering around the edges of his cover. Fifteen feet. Ten.

With a cry of exertion and another expenditure of mana, he shoved the glowing plate forward, angling it and sending it spinning into the creature's legs. The plate took the zombie at the knees, wreaking havoc on the joints and sending the thing sprawling to the ground. Blake closed the distance in a heartbeat, Verdict staying holstered as Fang leapt into his hand.

A secondary blade of shimmering, transparent mana bloomed from the knife's edge. The [Phantom Edge] hummed as Blake brought it down in a vicious arc, severing the creature's weapon-arm at the shoulder. The fuel-slick limb clattered to the floor. The creature's head snapped toward him, hollow eyes wide.

Blake reversed his grip and drove the steel blade straight into the glowing blue apparatus in its abdomen. The blade sank deep. Light inside the core sputtered, flashed erratically, then died. The creature shuddered with a long mechanical sigh as it crumpled to the deck.

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Silence fell, broken only by the first creature's corpse still burning itself out. The air tasted the same way it smelled: like melting plastic and burning tires. He was actually grateful for that. He was worried that the humanoids would smell human when they burned. He knew the smell; it was impossible to forget, but he was happy to avoid a fresh reminder.

"Think those were more crewmembers?" Rax asked, manifesting against a nearby wall.

"Yeah," Blake responded without thought. He grimaced, looking at Rax, who smiled with exaggerated sweetness in return. He was growing accustomed to the specter's presence, which was not ideal.

"Pretty nasty transformation," the spectre continued.

"We're not friends, I don't need the small talk." Blake didn't spare him even a glance as he moved past, headed towards the next destination.

"We're not enemies, though," Rax said, appearing ahead of Blake once more, still leaning against the bulkhead.

"The hell we aren't. I don't care if you're actually Rax or not, I don't like you."

"You don't have to like me, Blake. And sure, this Rax fellow I'm emulating really didn't like you either, but it's important that I'm not that person. Really important."

"Yeah?" Blake questioned as he found the maintenance ladder he'd need to take to ascend to the next floor safely. "Why the hell is that?"

"Because I was created to help you, despite what you might think. Your title is beneficial, after all. I'm supposed to help your growth."

"Well manure might help plants grow, but I don't think having a piece of shit like Rax in my head is any good for me."

Above him, a panel sprang loose from the wall, and a skitterer poked its head out. Before the creature could properly sight in on him, Blake put a pair of Recoil rounds into the underside of its head. The force of the combined impact began to pull the creature free of the shaft it occupied, but its carapace gave way as it was forced brutally against the sharp edge of the panelling it had ripped away.

With a sickening, wrenching crack, the thing's head tore free from its body. Blake leaned hard to his right to avoid the torrent of foul liquid that poured from the corpse, and used a light brush of [Telekinesis] to steer the falling head clear of himself.

"Look, we can both agree that there's some overlap in the way we see the world, right?" Rax asked, still leaning against the wall despite the lack of a floor, his cybernetic arm gleaming unnaturally given the dim lighting.

Blake grunted. He hated that Rax was right, even a little.

"Yes, we can. I never shied away from that."

"And we can both agree you're not likely to come around to my way of thinking fully."

"Not a chance." Blake moved to the ladder, grabbing a rung. The metal felt cold beneath his gauntlet. He started to climb.

"So you need to figure out why the Demiurge believes you're not done," Rax said, floating up alongside him, his ghostly form unfazed by gravity.

Blake reached the top, pulling himself through the opening with a practiced motion. The corridor above was less damaged than the one below, but still showed signs of the Outsider's corruption. Organic tendrils pulsed in the flickering emergency lights.

"I was supposed to be able to accept part of you into my path or reject you," Blake said, pushing through a hanging mass of cables covered in something sickly and green. More of the unidentifiable organic matter squelched under his boots. "Accepting some of what you represent isn't working, and rejecting you outright didn't either. I don't know what the hell the system wants."

Rax stood before him, his expression unreadable, his gaze fixed on Blake's face. He looked like he wanted to say something, a thought clearly forming behind his eyes.

"Well," Blake said, stopping. "If you have something to say, say it."

"I can't," Rax said. "I think I've got it at least partially figured out, but I can't solve this for you. You're going to have to remove your head from your ass without my help."

"Fuck you, too." Blake replied, staring at the specter, a muscle in his jaw working. He turned away, resuming his path down the corrupted corridor. The stench of decay filled his nostrils, thick and cloying. He kept his eyes on the floor ahead, ignoring the shimmering figure that now floated silently at his side. The phrasing there was interesting. Rax said he couldn't say anything, and given that he was a manifestation of the system, that probably meant he was being literal. He wouldn't be allowed to just hand out the answer if the point was to make Blake reassess his Path.

The corridor opened into a wider space, a lounge area that had seen better days. Tables and chairs lay overturned, some fused into grotesque organic sculptures by the corruption. The air was heavy, still, the silence punctuated only by the soft drip of some unknown liquid from the ceiling. He scanned the room, his eyes picking out details. A child's toy, half-buried under a mound of debris. A broken data-slate. A discarded combat boot. The ghosts of the crew, their lives ended here, clung to the air.

He swung a leg over a collapsed I-beam, the sole of his boot scraping against oxidized plating. The sound died instantly, absorbed by the corridor's dead air. He paused, head canted, listening past the thrum in his own blood. No scrape of a metal claw on the deck. No whine of a stressed servomotor. He dropped back into a low crouch, Verdict's muzzle tracking from one patch of darkness to the next. His weight settled onto the balls of his feet, each step a silent roll from heel to toe. The shadows clung to the corners and doorways, dark voids that ate the faint ambient light and gave nothing back.

"Look, underneath that dog-shit personality they gave you, you're basically me, yeah?" Blake asked, not breaking stride. The lounge was behind them, the corridor ahead still dark and twisted. He kept his voice low, just above the soft thrum of the ship's distant systems. He was certain he could communicate with Rax in the same purely mental way he did Kitt, but it didn't feel right.

"Effectively," Rax floated alongside him, a translucent, flickering presence. "Like I said, you wouldn't listen to anyone else."

Blake grunted, a short, humorless sound. He stepped over a fallen ventilation shaft, the metal groaning under his weight. The air was thick with the scent of decay, and a faint, sweet, metallic tang.

"It's probably more than that, too, isn't it? That would be something else you couldn't outright tell me, but it tracks."

Rax said nothing. His eyes, usually mocking or dismissive, held an uncharacteristic interest. He seemed to study Blake, a silent, appraising look. The corridor ahead narrowed, forcing Blake to turn sideways, pushing past more of the sickeningly green organic growths that pulsed with faint, sickly light.

"The way I see it, if the point of this title is to help me think through my own Path, then you could never have actually been anyone else," Blake continued, pushing through a curtain of thick, fibrous vines. They felt wet and cold somehow, even through his gloves, and he grimaced. "You were always going to be my own subconscious, draped in the veneer of someone else. Because another person convincing me to change my Path only weakens it. I have to convince myself to change."

A small smile touched Rax's lips. He continued to float along, silent, his gaze still fixed on Blake. The walls of the corridor began to shift, the metal plates twisting into unfamiliar angles, but Blake kept his focus forward, ignoring the unsettling changes.

"So if you're me," Blake said, pulling his boot free from a patch of thick, viscous sludge that clung to the deck. The smell of something burnt and bitter filled his nose. "Then stop being such a goddamned Sally and figure out a way to work around whatever restrictions you're under."

"Easier said than done, chief," Rax's ethereal form flickered.

"Yeah, I'll damn well bet." Blake reached a junction, the path ahead splitting into two identical, dark tunnels. He paused, his head cocked, listening for any subtle differences in the distant hum of the ship. He pulled up his HUD, checking the internal schematics, hoping to find a shortcut or a less corrupted path. "But still, you can come at things obtuse if you have to, but I think we both need to stop letting that persona the System saddled you with get between us."

"Oh, you'd actually try and work with me?" Rax's voice held a note of genuine surprise, or perhaps a faint echo of it. The specter's head tilted.

Blake chose the left tunnel. It was marginally less dark, a faint, almost imperceptible glow emanating from some of the corrupted tendrils on the walls.

"Sure. I'm basically just telling myself to help myself. Perfectly normal conversation to have in a haunted spaceship." He ran a hand over the rough, slime-covered wall, feeling the cold, slick surface beneath his fingers.

Blake shoved through a half-jammed blast door, metal groaning as he squeezed into a cavernous space beyond. The stench hit him immediately—stagnant water and rotting vegetation with an undercurrent of hot metal and battery acid. Emergency lights pulsed erratically, throwing monstrous shadows across hulking machinery.

The sickly green growths were everywhere, blanketing the walls and machinery in a thick, pulsing carpet. Fibrous tendrils, some as thick as his arm, snaked across the deck, converging on a great heap of wreckage in the center of the chamber. The entire room felt alive; the soft thrumming came from the corruption itself.

"You're a goddamned mess, Connover." Rax's voice was closer now, right next to his ear.

Blake pushed further into the cavernous space. The thrumming deepened with every step, a low, guttural vibration that settled in his teeth. The fibrous tendrils covering the walls and machinery pulled taut, bulging like cords of muscle being flexed. Sludge on the deck no longer idly dripped, instead flowing inward, a sickening current, towards the central mass of wreckage. In the chamber's heart, the heap of wreckage began to shift.

The twisted, fused plates of scrap metal contorted into a misshapen limb, jagged and uneven. The sickly green mass pulsed and braided, twisting into thick bundles that strained against each other, ripping and tearing with unnatural force. It heaved upward, a hulking mass of limbs and jagged armor, looming over Blake as it climbed from the wreckage.

Within its helmeted skull—rising slowly from the central mass—two glowing red optics flared to life. The thing let out a shriek not of sound, but a wave of raw static and violence that shredded the air, a crackling wave of pure chaos.

Blake raised Verdict, his finger finding the trigger. He realized he was smiling.

"We sure are."