Supersum: Living in another world [LitRPG Transmigration Fantasy]

...

Night had fallen, and with it came a humidity so dense it thickened into a mist that swallowed the final traces of daylight. The only real illumination came from the ever-glowing volcano at the island's center—Arazuma, the throbbing heart of the Pure-Steam Clan. Far above, its fiery peak pulsed against the darkness, washing the surrounding rainforest in a faint, rosy light.

The haze mingled with drifting ash, weaving through a tapestry of twisting vines and vibrant foliage. Every leaf and fern greedily absorbed the mineral-rich ash, while moss on the forest floor faintly glowed as it soaked up the nutrients. On the undulating terrain that rose and dipped around the city, crooked palisades of sturdy timber stood vigilant. Their jagged tops mimicked the horns of wild beasts, meant to inspire both dread and reverence among the clan's kin.

As darkness settled over the city like a somber cloak, soldiers switched shifts with weary acceptance. But they moved cautiously, stepping around hidden ditches and traps along ancient pathways. These walkways, worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, wound through narrow alleys that twisted under thick ferns and sprawling vines, softening the harsh lines of carved stone walls and woven hide awnings. The heady scent of damp earth mingled with the perfume of blooming night flowers and the tang of mystical incense, giving the city a deceptively serene atmosphere as Arazuma stirred to life under the moonlight.

In the lower districts, architecture reflected the clan's tumultuous past and evolving future: tall wooden houses perched on sturdy stilts beside fortified stone structures bearing the scars of old battles. Though the war raged at a distance, its shadow loomed over every cramped street and quiet corner. Crates of rationed supplies arrived sporadically, their contents meager but vital. On short leave from distant fronts, battle-worn soldiers brought anxious tidings that underscored the city's precarious state.

Under the watchful eyes of the ruling council, Arazuma's people went about their nightly routines with grim determination. Market stalls draped in bold, striped fabrics offered a rare splash of color in the gloom. Earthy shades—rust reds, deep browns, verdant greens—were woven into geometric patterns, and embroidered sashes cinched tightly around waists. Patterned headscarves shielded weary faces from drifting ash—a beautiful tapestry of dynamics.

But in smoky taverns and behind market stalls, frustration simmered just below the surface, fueling quiet conversations about the council's heavy-handed decrees. Curfews tightened each week, taxes soared, and rumors spread of harsh punishments for anyone daring to criticize the oversight. Still, life continued. Fishermen braved dangerous rivers for scarce catches, while farmers harvested small crops of exotic fruits. Although authority pressed down like a stifling blanket, the populace endured—if only to see another dawn.

In this struggle, at the foot of the volcano, a formidable wooden edifice revealed who indeed held power here. Towering gates braced with iron plating evoked colossal tusks as though the structure itself rose in savage salute. Inside stood a central hall hewn from rough timbers and bound hides, its design reminiscent of a fortress conjured from molten rock and primal mysticism. A massive plank carved with a crude sigil—a volcanic peak wreathed in dancing flames—loomed above the entrance, warning visitors of the raw forces at play.

Smoke from braziers drifted upward into a high, angular roof. Thick beams, their surfaces scorched from volcanic heat, crisscrossed overhead. The walls were crowded with bone talismans, each etched in sinuous elemental patterns that seemed almost alive in the flickering torchlight. Beneath them knelt a ring of shamans draped in vibrant, striped cloaks. Their voices blended in a low chant, an otherworldly hum resonating through the hall as if the volcano had joined in their prayers.

A colossal figure sat at the center of it all upon a broad throne carved from basalt and reinforced with hammered iron. The backrest bristled with skulls—some from enemies, others from ill-fated allies—each blackened and hollow-eyed, as though eternally screaming. This shaman-lord was a half-orc, half-fire-djinn, his massive red-skinned frame riven with ember-orange cracks that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. Heat shimmered around him like a mirage, and his eyes glowed like banked coals. No one questioned his authority—his lineage provided a direct conduit to the volcanic spirits sleeping beneath Arazuma's foundations. But with unrest and war simmering on every horizon, few dared test his wrath.

Leaning his head on one fist, he crossed one leg over the other—the clanking of ankle bracelets made of bones resounded in a rhythmical dread. His gaze fixed upon a single figure in the hall—a figure who stood tall, refusing the customary bow. "Daring," he rumbled, his deep voice laced with menace. Smoke curled from his maw, a testament to the fire in his blood. "What gives you the right to stand before me?"

The individual in question was a slender elf clad in pristine white silk, her delicate ears poking through a silver coif, but some hair was still seen as it fell partly over her gentle but venomous eyes. She wore a serene smile that suggested complete confidence. "My dear friend," she replied, her tone honeyed yet sharp, "I haven't come to crawl before you—especially not when your territory is the one encircled and crumbling piece by piece by a horde of animals."

In response, the shaman-lord tapped a single clawed finger against the arm of his throne. A crushing weight immediately pressed upon every other shaman in the room, forcing them into low bows. Their labored gasps spoke of souls nearly wrenched from their bodies by the invisible force—screams of misery and dread spread like the smoke of incense, turning into images of the crying damned.

"Like I said," the massive orc-djinn hybrid repeated, letting the intensity of his power increase. Even the elven woman's smile faltered for a heartbeat, sweat beading along her temples, marring her scared and greyish dead skin. "Daring."

Her eyes narrowed, the faintest glimmer of strain reflected in their depths. "Will you not accept my help, then, Gralius the Enlightened?" she asked, voice edged with challenge. "Or do you prefer to only wait for the immutable future?"

He slowly eased off the mystical pressure, though his posture remained tense. "Speak," the voice still drew his underlings into shivers.

She sighed slowly, rolling her eyes as if the question were tedious. "What is it with orcish pride?" she mumbled, chuckling under her breath before resuming a more formal tone. "But I believe my initial assistance has already proven my commitment to our… arrangement."

No one spoke aloud, though nearly all furtive gazes flitted to a small skull mounted on the throne—a heartbreakingly petite gnome child's skull. Its presence carried a silent weight, a reminder of her past assistance.

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

"Let me be straightforward," the elf said, her lips curving into a wry grin. "I am not here purely to bolster your ambition. I'm after something I've sought for a long time."

Gralius arched one thick brow, his voice rumbling with disinterest. "And that is?"

"Marisia S. Leonandra," the elf answered, her tone dripping with palpable malice. "I want her to suffer."

A hush fell over the hall, broken only by the crackle of fire in distant braziers. Then Gralius's laughter boomed, shaking the skulls on his throne—their clatter imitating his surprise. Flames danced with his mirth, leaning away from him in curling arcs. "You offer your help in exchange for capturing a Moorgrelian Knight?" His nostrils flared, and pungent smoke escaped in sharp bursts. "I have no intention of provoking a war with those ravenous animals," a silent understanding hung in the air—many tried and failed miserably, waging against the insanity that was Moorgrel.

She wagged a finger in mild reproach. "No, no, no. I said I want her to suffer. I'll aid you so long as you permit me to use my own people—healers, enforcers, whoever I decide. I can tend to your wounded, perhaps remove a threat or two." She shrugged gracefully as though the matter were trivial. "What do you have to lose, or do you think Lavafist will be merciful with your group?"

Gralius's molten-orange eyes flickered with inscrutable emotion. For a moment, he simply observed her, tapping his claw again. The ring of shamans remained silent; their heads still bowed in caution. The tension in the hall thickened like lava while an unspoken bargain hovered between the two figures.

Yet the elf stood unfazed, her gaze unwavering. The faint glow of the braziers outlined her silhouette, and for a heartbeat, she looked every bit as formidable as the orc-djinn who towered before her. Outside, the volcano's glow pulsed brighter, sending a tremor through the cavernous hall. The city of Arazuma seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the shaman-lord's decision.

...

A cold shiver raced along Alexander's spine as his eyes snapped open. He was seated in his cramped tent, lamplight flickering against thick canvas walls. The night air felt unnatural still, and the faint rustle of distant footsteps only intensified his unease. He peered around warily, every sense on alert.

"Huh," he muttered, frowning at the stale air. "Something is wrong."

A moment later, a solemn voice cut through his thoughts. "Mr. Alexander," Lili announced, appearing beside him. Her tongue lolled out in a way that signaled her strain. "I will say this only once. Please understand that I hold you in high respect."

Alexander exhaled, releasing some tension from his shoulders. "I suck," he said, acknowledging her unspoken point before she could continue. "My [Soul Arts] is abysmal—no need to remind me."

Over the past few weeks, he had been relentlessly training in soul cultivation to fortify himself against the shamans—enemies capable of inflicting devastation on a spiritual level, bypassing mere physical defenses. Yet his progress remained negligible.

Lili stepped lightly across the cute cottoned blanket covering the bed. "Your soul is very solid," she said, though her tone hinted at worry, "but your kin is sadly less gifted in this discipline."

The beast kin race didn't excel in the [Soul Arts]; their strengths were tangible, like combat, not esoteric manipulations of spirit. For Alexander, it felt unnatural to sense or control the intangible. He believed he could dissect and analyze his way into mastery, but soul work defied logic. Therefore, his studies stalled.

"Also," Lili continued, circling Alexander as he sat cross-legged, "stop thinking about it. [Soul Arts] involves understanding yourself—intuitively, innately." She rested her head gently on his shoulder. "It's not just a puzzle to be solved."

Alexander sighed, shoulders slumping. "So I need to rely on you, then?"

He glanced at the tent flap, where a faint breeze carried the scent of damp earth and campfires. Outside, shadows flickered, cast by mana lamps that lit the encampment's perimeter. That intangible dread still lingered in the back of his mind, the encounter with Oyaras, but the pressing issue remained his lack of progress—he had no choice except to heed Lili's guidance.

She lifted her head, a ghost of a smile crossing her features. "There is another way," she offered softly, as though reluctant to continue.

Alexander forced a wry grin. "Excruciatingly painful? Torturous? By now, I'm used to near-death experiences for learning anything new."

Lili's expression darkened. "It's worse." A swirl of restless spirits shimmered into view around her, their hollow eyes gleaming with a kind of starved hunger. Alexander felt a prickle of revulsion but maintained his composure, blocking them out easily with mental discipline. "You know what most spiritualists are? How do they become one—like me or the Lord of the East?"

"Dad?" he echoed, half wondering what her next plan was and whether it again involved getting tortured. "No idea."

Lili rose onto her hind legs, pressing her forepaws against his shoulders in an almost human gesture. "Moorgrelian Knights train themselves to be unyielding—suppressing or redirecting their emotions until they're as hard as iron." She lowered her muzzle, and her mouth twisted into a grotesque smile. Something black and viscous began to drip from her eyes, sizzling where it touched Alexander's skin. "We, on the other hand, are victims. Lost and hurt. We felt pain—deep, agonizing pain—and let it rot inside, like a wound left to fester until it became a weapon."

A wave of searing heat flared where the black substance met his cheek. Alexander gasped, recoiling. His skin felt as though it were dissolving, and a creeping terror stole over him. "Do I have a choice?" he rasped. Outside, the lanterns around the camp began to flicker wildly, as if the oppressive presence inside the tent had made even the flames recoil.

"No," Lili replied. Her maw yawned wider than seemed possible, exposing rows of jagged teeth. Her voice reverberated, echoing in the cramped space and in Alexander's skull. Her words shattered the tranquil hush of the night. "Mistress said to forge you into a masterpiece, and such a blemish is unacceptable."

Before he could scream, her jaws clamped around his head. The tent erupted into chaotic shadows as blood splattered across its walls. In that instant, Alexander's consciousness fractured. He felt his body collapse, the dull thud of lifeless flesh hitting the ground and penetrating his psyche. A pungent stench of copper flooded his senses, though he had no eyes left to see.

He might have expected darkness, but consciousness persisted—and he realized with rising panic that he was experiencing everything from some twisted, disembodied vantage. His soul, raw and naked, still perceived the world. He saw Lili, or what masqueraded as Lili, standing there with half his face dribbling from her jaws. Her laughter was an unearthly cackle that made the tent walls expand as though they threatened to burst with each horrifying note.

"Mistress will be delighted," the creature purred. She spat out a chunk of flesh, letting it slap wetly to the dirt floor. The walls around them shimmered as if reality itself flickered between two states—one the camp he knew and the outer circle of swirling shadows and rotting apparitions.

Alexander felt the agony of regeneration. Veins, bones, and sinew reformed, snapping back into existence as if forcibly knitted by unseen hands. He reappeared on his knees, body trembling and tear-streaked, the coppery taste of blood lingering on his tongue as he wretched forcefully, unable to process the sensation.

His tent seemed impossibly large as he glanced around, the corners vanishing into black voids where something pulsed and writhed. An insectile clicking echoed from all directions, a chorus of moans weaving in and out of Alexander's hearing, making it impossible to locate a source. The air was so thick with dread that it felt tangible, like cold, clammy hands dragging across his skin.

"Let's make you into the perfect weapon, shall we?" Lili's voice had changed, layered with a thousand hushed whispers, each one repeating the phrase in a twisted mockery. Her eyes, now fathomless pits of dripping tar, glinted in the lamplight. Outside, the night wind battered at the tent's fabric, a frantic whispering that sounded like muffled screams.

With no choice and nowhere to run, Alexander sank into the horror, feeling his soul quake. But to survive, therefore, he would have to face this living nightmare, forging his spirit under the weight of absolute terror.