Tower of Avarice: A LitRPG story

Mathew sat on the fractured remains of a once-grand statue, its stone face eroded by a combination of time, irrelevance and violence. Only the broken torso remained the symbol of a forgotten Demigod worn smooth by the harsh wind and even harsher apathy of the locals.

One of its massive hands lay shattered nearby; its finger outstretched as though in a final, futile plea for worship. The other hand was nowhere in sight, and Mathew idly wondered if some industrious individual had carted it away for some purpose.

Mathew's coat was torn at the sleeves and frayed at the edges. Dust clung to the worn fabric, making it appear more grey and washed out than black. The Godslaying Blade of Wrath rested across his knees, dormant now that there were no enemies to fight.

He didn't move for a long time, and the silence around him was enough to weigh down his spirit like chains.

Mathew stared out at the dead horizon in front of him. The landscape was still, and even the wind wasn't blowing here at the moment. It was as if nature itself had grown tired of this place and looked for greener pastures.

Aether swirled sluggishly across the ground, like a river that no longer remembered how to flow. The blue mist was thick here, strong enough that he could easily see why he had been sent to secure this world.

Mathew exhaled and dropped his gaze to the ground.

The exhaustion that gnawed at him wasn't physical; he had transcended the boundaries of mortal fatigue. The mana inside him would fuel his stamina, even removing the need for sleep if he wanted it to.

But what pressed on his soul now was the slow rot of his spirit and, like the statue he sat on, the steady erosion of meaning. The 'drive' he felt for so many years, the need to help Emily, had been fulfilled, and now all that remained was 'why.'

Why was he still alive, and why was he still fighting?

Mathew no longer knew what he was still trying to accomplish. Mischievous Depravity had its hooks in him, a choice he had made freely in order to help Emily, and now he moved like a puppet pulled by invisible threads.

He fought whoever he was told to fight, and he went wherever he was ordered to go. There was no joy in it and no anger either. It was just routine, and he couldn't find a reason to go on anymore.

Mercy took pleasure in the violence; she enjoyed her role as an Apostle. It was easy to see what drove her on. Primal urges and emotions. But Mathew didn't have that, and without purpose or emotions to anchor him, he felt adrift.

Emily had been the last real connection to who he had been. She had been his anchor to the world outside the endless, timeless and cruel Tower of Avarice.

But now she was gone; she was free. She'd left the Tower a long time ago, or so Mathew liked to believe. Time didn't play fair in the Tower. What felt like years for him could have been a lifetime for her, or only minutes.

She might have grown old and lived a peaceful life. Emily might have forgotten all about the Tower and him entirely. Maybe she found happiness, and he wished that were true. It was a cruel wish or kind. Mathew couldn't decide which.

He wanted her to be happy, but the thought of her living a life without him or with someone else twisted his stomach into knots. It was selfish, but he couldn't help it.

Mathew leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees and put his head in his hands. The Godslaying Blade of Wrath hummed faintly on his lap as if it were remembering its past battles and enjoying the thought.

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The idea of using it against his enemies filled Mathew with no emotions. He didn't feel pride or fear. There was only the certainty that it would happen because that was all he knew how to do anymore. He was a weapon for Mischievous Depravity, the same as the sword on his lap.

The ruined statue was a disturbing presence, and Mathew's eyes were continually drawn to its headless torso. It was a fallen idol, shattered and forgotten. He wondered if that would be him someday. His name would be lost, and his purpose made meaningless.

His body would become just another ruin in the Tower, and people would wonder who he was and what purpose he served.

The silence was eventually broken by a loud explosion of mana that tore through the sky above him. It was a spiral of raw power that twisted upward like a storm and caused the clouds above to quiver and part, pushed away by the sheer force of it.

Mathew lifted his head and stared in the direction of the disturbance. He could feel someone out there, another Apostle, looking to claim this territory for their god.

Mathew's jaw tensed as he felt the weight of inevitability settle on his shoulder with a heaviness that was spiritual rather than physical. The mana felt unfamiliar, but he understood the intent behind it. It was a challenge and a statement by a rival seeking to eliminate him.

The myriad worlds of the Tower were filled with moments like these. Conflict was the only language that was spoken between the various domains of the gods, and the Apostles were the tip of the spear.

With a slow exhale, Mathew rose from where he sat on the statue. He didn't bother wiping the dust from his pants or jacket; he simply stood and rested the weight of the Godslaying Blade of Wrath on his shoulder while he waited.

He wasn't in a hurry. Sooner or later they'd meet, and they would fight, and someone would lose. Rinse and repeat in an endless cycle.

'Maybe it will be my turn to fall.' Mathew thought. A faint flicker of hope blossomed in his heart, only to be ruthlessly crushed by the connection he felt to the god he was enslaved to. He would give it his all because he had no other choice.

With another weary sigh, Mathew took a step forward.

Page Break

The corpse of the abomination steamed where it lay; its hulking mass still gave the occasional twitch even in death. Black blood pooled around it in a wide, corrosive lake that sizzled against the cracked stone and scorched ground of the 96th Floor.

Its body was barely recognizable as having once been humanoid. It was a twisted, corrupted mockery of the demigod it had been. One bone-like wing jutted at an odd angle from its back, while its face was a ruin of melted features.

Emily stood a short distance away with one hand pressed to her thigh while she popped the cork off a small vial of brilliantly red potion. She quickly splashed it on the wound and winced as it started to work quickly.

"That's awful." Emily muttered. Her breath was visible in the cold air, and she shivered. Now that the fight was over and the adrenaline had faded, she was tired, sore and freezing. Louis, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease as he wiped a rag across his sword to clear away the black blood.

The silver edge of the sword gleamed after the cleaning, but she recalled the gore-covered weapon as he thrust it into the abomination's eye to end its suffering.

"I thought you would be used to its effect by now." Louis commented as the corpse in front of him gave one last slight shudder before finally falling still.

The battlefield around them bore the scare of the fight. Pillars of stone had been shattered, and golden runes still flickered and faded on the ground, remnants of the magic Emily had summoned. The air around them had throbbed with mad, psychic pressure that radiated from the monster's mind as it sought to unravel their thoughts.

Emily had almost succumbed, and only the timely intervention of Louis had staved off the onslaught of insanity that threatened to overwhelm her.

"Do you think it was aware of what it was, of how it was once human?" Emily asked as she tested her weight on her injured leg. The potion was working its magic, although it would still take time for her to fully recover.

Potions were less effective as you climbed the Floors, and your Levels rose. Even the top-tier elixirs from the shop, which cost an exorbitant amount of Aether, could barely cope with the changes.

Louis gave a small, tired shrug in response to the question.

"If it did, death was a mercy."

Their silver wristbands pulsed with light, and the familiar mechanical voice echoed around them.

"Objective completed. The corrupted demigod has been purged. You may enter the elevator; access to Floor 97 has been granted."

Louis helped Emily to stand, offering her his arm as the pair walked together toward the newly arrived elevator that was spilling white light on the ground.

"We're so close." Emily whispered, her voice filled with hope and longing at the thought they would soon be at the top of the Tower and her wish could come true. Louis nodded as he brought her to the wall of the elevator to lean against as the doors closed behind them.

"You will see him soon." Louis assured her confidently.

"I hope so."