Tower of Avarice: A LitRPG story

Mathew stepped into the storm of battle as though he belonged there.

The vortex of mana raged around him, darkening the sky and blotting out the sun above. The Godslaying Blade of Wrath hung loose in his right hand's grip as it rested against his shoulder. The blade vibrated and hummed with barely contained violence.

Tendrils of black mana lashed from the aura around him like whips, coiling and twisting in the air as if they hungered for blood.

The Champions of the Tower braced themselves for an attack to form ranks or prepare their defences, but they were already too slow.

Mathew vanished from sight and reappeared in the center of their formation with an explosion of mana that sent rubble flying outward. His blade came down in a single, vertical slash, and the earth beneath it gave way.

A canyon was torn open, wide and deep, while the impact flung the Champions backward as if a god had struck the ground around them. Mana exploded skyward from the impact, and the clouds overhead parted, torn asunder by the force of his swing.

One Champion raised a barrier, but it shattered before it was even fully formed. Another tried to summon wings made of wind to escape the sudden onslaught but was caught mid-air by a sweep of energy from Mathew's blade, which sent her crashing to the ground in a heap.

Spells flew at him, but they dissolved midway to him. The sheer density of his mana disrupted any attempt to use magic against him. Mathew didn't bother blocking any of their attacks as there was no need.

He fought with brutal, terrifying efficiency. There were no wasted motions or a single unnecessary movement. Every strike from his sword carried the weight of divine energy given to him by Mischievous Depravity.

The silver-armoured young woman charged at him while screaming a war cry; her spear in her hands glowed brightly with light. Mathew turned toward her, and rather than striking with his blade, he backhanded her with a pulse of mana that flattered the young woman against a wall fifty feet away. Her body shattered the stone, and she collapsed onto the ground.

Within moments of the battle beginner, the outcome was clear.

The Champions tried to regroup and rally, but the one-sided assault kept coming. Each time Mathew moved, the ground shook. Ruined buildings crumbled, and the sky was being ripped open with ragged lines of light and darkness as if reality itself were fraying under the pressure of his attack.

Mathew's expression never changed as he fought. His face was carved from stone, with the calm of someone who had fought for far too long and no longer cared about the consequences.

Even Mercy, still kneeling on the scorched ground, marvelled at the display of power. She knew better than anyone how unstoppable and powerful Mathew was. She had fought him multiple times and never won, but at least she had seen him struggle against her in the past.

Now, seeing the Tower's chosen fall around him like wheat beneath a scythe, she couldn't imagine ever being his match again. It was so effortless, so brutal. He didn't use special abilities or any disciplines from their god. He just used sheer force to defeat his enemies.

Mercy's hands clenched into fists as the shame flushed through her, driving away all the pride and anger she had felt before.

"Mathew." She whispered again. She hadn't wanted to need him to rescue her, nor did she want him to see her in this state.

But what made everything worse was that she was relieved he was here with her and that she was coming to rely on him.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

It made her sick.

The storm of mana stilled around her, fading in slow, trembling waves like the ocean reluctantly receding from the shore. Cracks spiderwebbed through the scorched ruins, and the pulverized remnants of buildings were scattered all around them.

The Champions lay on the ground at Mathew's feet. Some were groaning, while others were silent. They were broken in body and spirit, their weapons were ruined, and their armour was shattered. Worse, their pride had been obliterated.

Mathew stood at the center of it all with the Godslaying Blade of Wrath still humming faintly in his hand, though he had a point resting against the ground. The air around him shimmered; his dark mana still lay like a cloak across the area. His blue eyes were glowing brightly, but they were as emotionless as his face.

He stepped forward slowly, his boots crunching on the broken stones. When he finally spoke for the first time, his voice was quiet and hoarse, as if he had spoken for a long time.

"You came here to stop the god of Mischievous Depravity from taking this world. You failed, but you don't have to die here. You can keep going through the Tower; you can still achieve your wish. All you need to do is kneel and swear to serve Mischievous Depravity."

Mathew ended his short speech and waited for their response. He didn't say the obvious about what would happen to them if they didn't kneel. The implied threat was enough.

Mercy wasn't surprised when the first of the Champion slowly rose to one knee and swore.

Page Break

Emily stood on a ridge and stared down at the endless hoard of demons that poured from the rife in the sky. It wasn't a portal of magic, with a glowing circle or light or runes that she was familiar with. No, this was a wound in reality, a ragged tear across the horizon that oozed darkness and energy that twisted the air around it.

The demons came from the depths of the rift by the tens of thousands, and the land below her practically boiled with them.

Champions of the Tower of Avarice held the line against them on both sides of Emily. Mages chanted from behind stone and dirt barricades, hurling magic against them. Warrior bristling with enchanted armour and weapons formed a wall of shields and spears, only to be smashed aside by the tide.

Behind Emily on a higher portion of the ridge were the archers and artificers who were raining down volleys of magical arrows, explosive cannons, lightning and a hundred different forms of death.

They were all veterans of the Tower who had survived 93 Floors before this one. They had faced demons before, the undead and countless other enemies. But the tide of demons didn't stop, nor did it break. It only surged forward.

There were demons the size of siege towers that crashed through the ranks of humans like living battering rams. They dragged chains behind them as thick as tree trunks and far more durable than steel. They lashed them across the ground and sent humans flying.

Demons with bodies fused with rare metals stronger than iron and shaped by dark magic screamed in their demonic language as they fought. Smaller beasts swarmed between their legs, all teeth and too many limbs that darted about with unnatural speed.

Emily launched herself into the battle, her staff lighting up with swirling lines of mana as she unleashed a storm of lightning that forked out into the nearest cluster of demons. Dozens exploded, their forms unravelling like threads pulled from a tapestry, but others always replaced them.

A Champion to her right fell with a scream as they were impaled by a demon's barbed tail. Emily spun around and raised her hand to send a concentrated beam of searing energy through the monster's torso, vaporizing it instantly.

There was a loud explosion, and thunder cracked as lightning spiderwebbed across the red-tinged clouds above. Those clouds began to churn violently, swirling in a whirlpool of red, purple and dark grey. The air grew heavy as foreign pressure pushed down on them.

Emily stumbled under the force, her knees buckling. She looked up in despair to see the demons were getting closer, and she struggled to regain her feet.

But it was useless, and she could only watch as a large, red-skinned demon raised its clawed hand to swipe at her.

"La Fin!" A voice shouted in French behind her. The words rang out like a bell through the battlefield as a streak of blue light lanced across her vision. It was so swift that it cleaved through the air in a blink, splitting apart a dozen or more demons in an instant.

The momentum of their charge shattered, and their advance halted for a moment.

Emily blinked in surprise at her sudden rescue and turned to look at who had helped her.

A young man strode across the battlefield with the elegance of a noble attending a ball rather than a battlefield. His armour was polished silver and blue, with a sash across the front and a thin-bladed sword in his right hand.

"Mademoiselle." He said smoothly as he came up next to her and offered her his gloved hand to help her stand.

"I…thanks!" Emily stammered before giving him a smile and standing. He nodded gracefully in response.

"A dramatic entrance is a nobleman's right. I am Louis, of Francia."