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

Blake tasted copper. His own blood, warm and slick, tracking down his temple where something had tagged him. He hadn't even noticed. His world dissolved into heat and light. The core's raw power—Caprea's grief and fury channeled through Kitt—burned through his pathways like molten metal.

"Kitt!" he rasped. "Hurry."

Her presence stuttered, consciousness fragmenting under the strain. She was suffering too. Whatever this connection was doing to him, it was tearing her apart as well. He felt her agony sharp as his own.

Kitt didn't bother with words; she just dumped information into him. A complex schematic bloomed behind his eyes: ablative layers and fractal spellforms.

Along with that came memory, but it took Blake a precious second to parse the experience. There was a strange, almost incomprehensible sense of being both within and outside of the memory's point of view. It was, Blake understood immediately, how Kitt must experience the world through his senses.

He was also certain that the memory didn't belong to the Kitt he knew. He'd ask her later if they survived the fight. It was a mystery for another time.

Blake's perception of time slowed as the memory spilled through his mind, vivid and seamless. He watched from inside the alien not-Kitt awareness as a tall, slender elf stood between a cluster of terrified civilians. Vylaas. Blake had seen flashes of the man in some of Kitt's memories before, as recently as when the Outsider had tried rooting around her mind the week prior.

The elf moved like a surgeon—no flourish, no waste. Fingers cut the air in clean arcs and angles, and mana of half a dozen types flowed from him. It was a living current drawn into shape by the prince's hands and will, gathered and set like a craftsman setting stone. Fractal patterns bloomed to life, hardening as they grew, locking edge to edge with a satisfying inevitability. Each pass of his limbs laid down a new plane of force, thin as frost on glass, shimmering with silvery inlays of enchantment.

Blake felt the tidal rush of mana leaving the man's cores—not from one wellspring, but three. Two cores thrummed in the Tylwith's chest, and the Chimera's core bound to him made three. Blake knew, intellectually, that the situation he and Kitt found themselves in with a shared core was not normal, but experiencing the difference was something else. Vylaas' raw energy output was tremendous.

Hexagons interlocked, layer upon layer, forming a dome of shimmering protection. One shell, then another, then three more until five distinct barriers stood between the civilians and whatever threat pursued them. The construct spanned three meters across, large enough to shelter the dozen women and children cowering inside.

Two armed figures broke from the group, rifles raised. They positioned themselves behind the barrier but aimed outward. When they fired, their shots passed through the hexagonal plates without resistance. Each projectile seemed to drink from the construct as it passed, the hexagons dimming momentarily before regaining their luster. The bullets emerged on the other side wreathed in blue-white energy, striking with amplified force.

[Bastion's Redoubt]

He understood the technique almost instantly, between the memory and the initial burst of information. The shield was ablative by design—individual plates could shatter without compromising the whole structure. More importantly, it allowed those inside to strike outward, their attacks drawing power from the barrier itself. Any projectile fired from within gained motion mana, hitting harder, flying truer.

Perfect defense that enabled perfect offense. The only problem was that it would drain him dry in seconds. It was an ability far beyond what he was ready to support.

"That's what Caprea is for," Kitt said, straining. "Medea provided the ability, Caprea's providing the power, and I'll hold the house of cards upright while you deal with big ugly and their undead toys."

"You sure you can handle it?" Blake knew the answer didn't really matter, but he had to ask.

"Someone has to. Just focus on casting the barrier. I'll keep Caprea's power in check. Then I'll maintain it all while you do the physical work. I'd do it myself, but I don't have a gun. Or a body."

"Sounds about right," he replied. "Let's do it."

Blake pulled himself back to the present, to the puppeteer creature and its horde. Pain lanced through his skull, but he forced himself to focus. The knowledge was there, burned into his brain. Complex energy circulation patterns. Fractal geometries—concepts he had no names for but understood with crystal clarity.

He fumbled through the mental architecture. The energy bucked against his will. He closed his eyes. Shut out the pain. Everything he had left he through behind the effort of cycling Caprea's mana correctly.

His hands moved. Fingers splayed, palms out. Mana surged along damaged meridians that screamed in protest. He visualized the strange fractal spellforms Kitt had shown him, the many-dimensional figures that programmed the spell's functions into every independent tile that composed the construct.

The task was beyond him. That wasn't even a question. He had, only minutes ago, celebrated his magical ingenuity in finding a way to deal with the Pupetteer's threads. He had the skills to make bucket-shaped sand castles, but had been handed architectural plans and told to build an actual fortress.

But the Pupetteer was moving to attack. Caprea was counting on him to get this done.

And if Blake was good for anything, it was getting shit done.

The ability didn't snap into existence with the grace Vylaas had displayed. It spluttered and groaned into being as lopsided blobs of force bloomed around him. Hexagonal planes warped into drunken ovals. Gaps flickered where layers failed to connect.

It was the ugliest thing he'd ever built.

But when the arm of the Pupetteer struck the dome, it held.

Relief flowed from Kitt, cool against his burning nerves. She took over maintenance. The mental burden lifted, though the pain of the foreign energy remained.

Blake's entire body trembled with effort as the next wave of husks slammed into the barrier—human shapes stripped down to meat and bone, with at least one weapon grafted onto each. A woman with a rifle fused to her forearm fired point-blank into the hexagonal plates. The shot ricocheted away, but the impact sent spider-web cracks across the nearest tile.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

"Kitt." His voice came out rough, barely audible over the wet thud of flesh on force. "How many?"

"Too many." Her answer rode the edge of panic. "Twenty. Thirty. More coming."

A husk with a flamethrower arm ignited, blue-white flame washing across the dome's surface. The heat washed over Blake, and for a moment, he was concerned that he'd be dry-roasted even through the protection of the barrier. Instead, [Bastion's Redoubt] flared a bright silver, and he felt Kitt's strain like a knife between his ribs. More power flowed from Caprea, seemingly endless, and the heat began to dissipate.

The rifle-woman fired again. This time, the hexagon she struck shattered, fragments of force dissolving into light. Kitt once more sprang into action, mana surging to patch the gap, and the effort tore at her and Blake alike as fresh power rushed through already-raw meridians.

More husks pressed forward. A man missing his lower jaw had a shotgun welded to his stump. A child—Christ, a child—with some projectile launcher where her hand should be. They moved with jerky coordination, puppeteered by threads Blake could barely see, silver filaments that caught the false sunlight like spider silk.

Blake raised Verdict. His arm shook. Recoil rounds were still loaded, but that was fine. He was interested to see what happened when the dome's acceleration amplified the force-transferring ammunition.

He pulled the trigger.

The bullet passed through the dome, elongated and supercharged by the distortion fields. Emerged moving like a railgun round. Struck the rifle-woman center mass.

It was hard to describe what happened.

When the round struck, all of its amplified kinetic energy was released at once, directed by the force mana Kitt used when creating the rounds. Normally, this resulted in an enemy being thrown away by the force of the blow, as if struck by something heavy and blunt.

This time, however, the force punched neatly through the husk. It ripped clean through her abdomen, and with an inexorable pull, dragged the rest of the thing's mass with it as it continued to travel. The result was, very briefly, a cone of gore that extended a half-dozen meters before it ran out of power and collapsed. The remaining pieces of the husk slid slowly to a halt in the attack's wake. The torso was gone. Rendered into a strange, inverted spray pattern on the ground.

Blake couldn't smile through the pain, but he felt like he was doing something close.

The puppeteer shrieked. All remaining limbs jerked. Hundreds more threads snapped taut. Dozens of husks advanced—not charging blindly but coordinating. Flamethrowers. Rifles. Grenade launchers. Textbook overwhelming assault.

Blake steadied his hand. Swung Verdict toward the puppeteer itself.

First shot caught it in one of its shoulder joints. The recoil round's amplified force tore the limb clean off and sent the creature spinning. Blake's second shot punched through its thick carapace just below center mass. The beast staggered, ichor spraying from the wound.

It howled. It was a sound like broken glass in his skull. Its remaining threads whipped frantically against the dome, finding no weakness.

Blake took aim again. The shield was ugly as hell, cobbled together from a dead man's knowledge and a dying man's desperation.

But it was holding.

And he had plenty more bullets.

"Thanks, Vylaas," he whispered. Through his bond, Blake felt a welling of complicated emotion in response to his words. He didn't overthink it. He pulled the trigger again.

Blake's third shot was lined up perfectly. Center mass. The puppeteer's remaining threads whipped frantically as it sensed the incoming attack.

Then the creature did something he didn't expect.

It yanked itself sideways with its own threads. Used them like grappling hooks, pulling against the mall's structural supports. The amplified recoil round punched through empty air where the puppeteer had been a split second before.

Smart. Too smart. The last thing Blake needed was a thinking enemy.

He tried to track its movement, swinging Verdict to follow. His arm felt like lead. The weapon wavered in his grip, barrel describing lazy arcs instead of the precise adjustments he wanted. His body was shutting down. The foreign mana had burned through him like acid.

The puppeteer scuttled backward on its spider legs, moving with surprising speed for something so massive. Blake squeezed the trigger again. The shot went wide, striking a concrete pillar and blowing chunks of debris across the mall floor.

"Blake." Kitt's voice came strained, distant. "I'm losing the barrier."

He could feel it. The hexagonal plates flickered, their silver glow dimming. Several had already shattered under the husks' assault. The remaining ones wouldn't hold much longer.

Blake tried to turn, to keep the retreating puppeteer in his sights. His legs buckled. The world tilted sideways, and he found himself on one knee inside the failing dome. Verdict's barrel pointed at the floor.

The puppeteer let out another shriek—this one different. Not pain or rage. Command.

The husks stopped their coordinated assault on the barrier. Instead, they spread out, forming a loose perimeter around Blake's position. They weren't trying to break through anymore. They were containing him.

Blake watched through the dome's wavering walls as the puppeteer retreated toward the far end of the mall. Its threads stretched behind it, still connected to the husks, still controlling them. But the creature itself was pulling back. Getting distance.

Coward. The thing had figured out that Blake's enhanced rounds could hurt or even kill it. So it was leaving its puppets behind to keep him busy while it escaped.

He got Verdict up again, the gun suddenly weighing a hundred pounds. The front sight painted a wavering, useless line across the mall's far end. The puppeteer was already disappearing into the shadows at the mall's far end, moving toward what looked like a service corridor.

"Fuck." Blake let Verdict drop, his arm following uselessly.

The important thing was that nothing was attacking the core any longer. The threads trying to rip it apart were gone. So far as he understood the plan, Caprea would only need a few more moments to—

As if on cue, a new light flooded the area, and the familiar glow of Caprea's protection swallowed the immediate area. This new dome expanded out to a diameter of 10 meters, violently pushing back the husks that had been standing guard.

[Bastion's Redoubt] flickered and died. The poisonous mana stopped flowing through Kitt and into Blake. In the absence of that pain, Blake felt like he was floating. His nerves no longer knew what to do or how to convey the existing damage he'd sustained.

"Kitt, we good?" He sounded bad, even to his own ears.

"Yeah. She's got it," Kitt replied. She sounded even worse.

"Good job, team," he chuckled. The laugh turned into a cough. He tasted blood. That was okay. He was safe right where he was.

Blake was asleep before he finished collapsing to the floor.