Crystal Core 4: A Litrpg Cultivation Adventure, page 22
Senga's lips curled into a snarl. She knew her blood heritage gave her an edge, but these were no mindless undead. The first vampire lunged at her, its claws raking across her arm. Pain lanced through her, but she used it to fuel her rage. They were fast, much faster than the ghouls.
She head-butted the vampire, enjoying the feel of its nose crunching beneath her forehead. As it staggered back, she seized its arm and, with a brutal twist, tore the limb from its socket. The vampire's shriek of agony echoed through the tower.
Apparently, with intelligence came the ability to feel pain.
The other two attacked in unison. Senga was forced on the defensive, ducking and weaving to avoid their lightning-fast strikes. Her blood magic manifested as a crimson shield, deflecting their attacks.
With a roar of defiance, Senga unleashed her full power. Blood erupted from her pores, forming into deadly spikes that impaled one of the vampires. The creature writhed in agony, its undead flesh sizzling where Senga's blood touched it.
The last vampire, sensing defeat, attempted to flee—but Senga wouldn't allow it. She reached out with her blood magic, seizing control of the vampire's body. She forced it to turn and walk back towards her, terror evident in its eyes.
“So weak,” Senga spat, her voice dripping with contempt.
She placed her hand on the vampire's chest and channeled her blood magic directly into its heart. The vampire's body convulsed, dark veins spreading across its skin, but then she pulled back her power. She needed the respite that only torture brought her. Sure, this creature might not make the pleasing sounds that living beings did when she worked her arts on them, but she could still taste its fear.
“You thought you were something special didn’t you, blood sucker? You are nothing before the might of the horde—we who are the chosen scourge of the Divided Realms,” she hissed.
Once again, she sent a pulse of her power into the creature, ripping apart its joints. Its heart failed to beat in its chest, though a great deal of blood still pooled there. Senga realized its heart was likely important to the vampire’s continued existence, despite the fact that it no longer pumped blood.
Best of all, the vampire regenerated the damage that she inflicted upon it. This creature was the perfect plaything. She could make it suffer for days, dragging out this arrogant lord of the grave’s suffering. Sadly, she knew that was not wise.
Instead of playing with it, after the first hour she flexed her heritage and exploded not just the creature’s heart, but every part of its body that was filled with blood. It crumbled into dust at her feet. The blood had splattered all over her, but a flexing of her will pooled it into a ball that floated behind her.
She’d have to find a container for it. Vampire blood might be useful for many things. Waste not, want not.
Senga surveyed the carnage around her. The tower had thrown its worst at her, and she had prevailed. Her body ached, covered in wounds and the filth of battle, but she felt alive—incredibly so. This was a great moment.
Now, she wondered where that voice was.
As she reached the top chamber of the tower, that same voice echoed around her. “Impressive that you survived this far, little orc, even if you fought with the finesse of a brute. At least I see a kindred spirit in you. You understand the value of dominance and the importance of… pain.”
Senga's eyes narrowed as she scanned the room. “Show yourself, specter. I've not climbed this cursed tower for word games.”
“Why have you climbed this tower? What did you expect to find in this place of death?” The voice mocked her. “How will you meet an even stronger foe, one with no blood for you to manipulate?”
Senga hesitated. Negotiating had never been her strong suit, but she still knew that you shouldn’t show too much of your hand. “I was told I might find an ally here. Is that you?”
A figure materialized before her, its black-cloaked form hovering in the air. Where legs should have been, there was only mist. Clawed hands emerged from the sleeves—those, at least, looked solid enough to rend flesh.
“I am the Widow,” the spirit hissed, “and you, Senga of the orcs, may be exactly what I need.”
Senga stood her ground, unflinching in the face of this new threat. “And what makes you think I have any interest in what you need?”
The Widow's laughter echoed through the chamber. It was a hollow sound that would have chilled the blood of lesser beings.
“Because, my dear,” the widow replied, “I can see what others can’t. Your connection to your home realm has been broken. You are now bound to this realm.”
“What of it?” Senga hissed.
She still didn’t know exactly what that meant, but she cursed Shurriel for having done it.
“I can show you the martial path, what cultivators call the path to the heavens. And because you’re now attuned to this realm, you can learn to master mana.”
Senga’s mind raced. Was this being speaking truth? No… maybe… But she knew it definitely wasn’t something to be trusted. Still, the idea of adding the power of the human warriors to her already impressive skill set made her grin.
“Assuming I was interested in that, then what do you want from me in return? Nothing for nothing and something for something is the way of the Divided Realms.”
The spectral figure swirled around her, and Senga prepared to defend herself. “My needs are not great, nor will they be onerous. I need the host I prepared to be brought here to me so that I may take control of it. And I wish to see the Hero of this realm die screaming.”
Senga smiled. She could work with that.
_____________________
Jinwae streaked through the air to a peak far distant from the settled lands of this realm. His destination was a monastery hidden at the very peak of the highest mountain in the realm. It was a place that few knew of, and most of those who knew of it deemed it to be more legend than reality.
Even at his top speed, it took him the better part of a full day to reach his destination. The storm force winds which carried him there drove the clouds before him until he reached the mountain peak. There, the mist was so heavy that it didn’t budge in the face of his strongest winds.
His control shattered, and his speed dropped to that of a newly minted D-ranker learning to fly for the first time. He continued on to the place that he had never seen before. He only knew of it because of his position as the head of the Baku sect.
The mist gradually gave way, and he saw a sprawling monastery with walls of the purest white stone nestled on a plateau just short of the mountain’s peak. Instead of the air being incredibly thin here, it was somehow condensed, almost like it was being pulled in from the world around him. He saw figures in robes of silver with blue trim and Baku markings. Their robes were the exact opposite of the clan’s blue with silver trim, denoting their positions as monks and keepers.
As Jinwae approached the monastery, the sheer grandeur of the structure took his breath away. Its white stone walls gleamed in the thin mountain light, their surfaces unmarred by time or weather. Intricate carvings of sky spirits and celestial beings adorned the gates, their eyes seeming to follow his every move.
Jinwae descended gracefully, his feet touching the polished stone courtyard with barely a whisper. The air around him hummed with power, thick with mana that made each breath feel like a draught of pure energy. The scent of mountain herbs and incense wafted on the breeze, creating an atmosphere of serenity and mystery.
The courtyard where he landed was not empty. Twelve monks stood in a perfect formation to greet him, their silver and blue robes rustling softly in the mountain breeze. Each monk's face was a serene mask of dedication, weathered by years of meditation and cultivation.
The lead monk stepped forward, his long white beard contrasting sharply with his dark skin. “Sect Head Jinwae,” he intoned, his voice resonating with a power that belied his aged appearance. “We are honored by your presence. How may we serve the clan?”
Jinwae could sense the raw power that emanated from each monk. Their auras, carefully restrained, still pulsed with the strength of peak B-rank cultivators, at a minimum. He noted with a mix of pride and trepidation that at least half of them radiated the unmistakable presence of A-rank cultivation. He pondered how they knew who he was, but realized that it was likely an obvious deduction once they took measure of his core.
“I require refreshment and an audience,” Jinwae replied, his tone brooking no argument despite the monk’s polite phrasing.
The monks bowed in unison, a fluid motion that spoke to years of synchronized practice. They led him to a small but exquisitely appointed chamber. The walls were adorned with tapestries depicting the long history of the Baku clan, each thread alive with sky mana.
A young acolyte, his movements grace personified, served Jinwae a steaming cup of herb-infused tea. The aroma was intoxicating. Hints of cloud berries and sky lotus teased his senses. As he sipped the tea, Jinwae felt his fatigue from the long journey melt away. Once refreshed, Jinwae addressed the gathered monks.
“I have come seeking the Founder,” he explained. “The realm faces a crisis that requires his wisdom and power.”
The lead monk's eyes widened almost imperceptibly. “Sect Head,” he began, his tone cautious, “the Founder has been in deep seclusion for centuries, meditating upon the mysteries of the heavens. To disturb him would be... unwise.”
Jinwae's eyes hardened. “I am well aware of the risks. But as Sect Head, I deem it necessary. The fate of our clan and perhaps the entire realm hangs in the balance. The Hero has failed us.”
A ripple of unease passed through the assembled monks. They exchanged glances in silent communication born of years living in close proximity. Finally, the lead monk spoke again, his voice heavy with resignation. “As you command, Sect Head. But we must warn you, the consequences of disturbing the Founder's meditation are yours and yours alone to bear.”
With great reluctance, the monks kowtowed to Jinwae, their foreheads touching the cool stone floor.
The lead monk rose and gestured for Jinwae to follow him. They ascended a spiraling staircase carved directly into the mountain's heart. Each step was worn smooth by countless feet over the centuries, yet still hummed with latent power. The air grew thicker with mana the higher they climbed, making each breath feel like he was inhaling liquid sky.
Intricate murals adorned the walls, depicting the Baku clan's most legendary figures and their greatest deeds. Jinwae felt the weight of history pressing down upon him with each step. Finally, they reached a massive door of cloud-white jade. Celestial scripts carved into its surface pulsed with barely contained power.
The monk turned to Jinwae, his expression grave. “Beyond this door lies the Founder's meditation chamber. I can go no further.” He bowed. “May the heavens guide your steps, Sect Head.”
With those parting words, the monk descended, leaving Jinwae alone before the imposing door. The sect head took a deep breath, steeling himself for what lay ahead. The fate of the realm, he reminded himself, was worth any risk.
With determination in his eyes, Jinwae pushed open the door and stepped into the unknown.
Chapter 21 - Into the Pit
I sprawled on the ground and groaned as I pushed myself up from the rocky surface. My body ached from the fall through the portal. The air around me was thick and oppressive, carrying the metallic scent of blood mixed with the acrid stench of sulfur.
As I took in my surroundings, the true nature of our predicament became painfully clear. As much as the air reeked of death, it was just a part of the mana that suffused this place. I immediately picked out Death Mana, Fire Mana, Earth Mana, and Shadow Mana. But there were other more esoteric mana types which were even more pervasive.
For lack of a better term, I would call one of them Chaos and the other Hell Mana. I felt them and saw how they were pulled into my channels along with all the other ambient mana around me. Once again, though, my channels stripped all the affinity of mana and left it as perfectly pure Neutral Mana.
The concentration of mana in this hellish place was significantly greater than the ambient mana present in the Divided Realm I had been summoned to. If I had to guess, I would have described the ambient mana there as being somewhere between Vapor and Mist stage. Here, on the other hand, it was somewhere between Cloud and Liquid stage—probably closer to Liquid.
I had to assume that mean all the denizens of this place would be much stronger.
It did, however, produce another benefit. I pushed aside the notifications warning me that I was crossing a portal into a realm of hell. I glanced briefly at the one which told me I’d gained 12 Vitae by taking the arm of the elite demon, N’bearn. The one that I was most interested in came after that one. I didn’t see any immediate threats, so I figured I should learn what I could from the system.
You are currently exposed to a much higher concentration of mana. Your mana concentration has increased by 6%
Mana Concentration: Crystal – SS-Rank 26% (Mid)
We’d only been here for a few moments, as far as I could tell, and already this mana rich environment was pushing my mana concentration higher. A second later, another notification popped up.
Exposure to this realm is refining your fiendish bloodline.
Fiendish bloodline +4%
Finally, a last notification popped up:
Beware, the laws of physics are little more than suggestions here.
Will is everything. Note that your protections tied to the human realm are not as effective here. Time, gravity, space, they are all pliable and chaotic here.
You stand nearer the Peak of Chaos than at any time since you have arrived in the Divided Realms.
That was pretty much what I’d expected. Now, though, I needed to take stock of our situation. We had landed in what appeared to be a vast, desolate pit within Avernus, the first layer of Hell—at least as I understood it.
The landscape stretched out before me. It was a nightmarish wasteland that defied all notions of natural geography. Jagged spires of obsidian rose from the ground like the teeth of some monstrous beast, their edges gleaming with a wicked sharpness that promised pain to any who dared to climb them. The ground beneath my feet was a patchwork of sharp, volcanic rock and loose scree.
Every inch of this place looked like a hazard if you weren’t prepared for razor sharp rocks. I felt heat radiating up from below. Small pebbles of quartz littered the area, their crystalline surfaces reflecting the eerie red light that permeated everything.
Oddly, some of the crystal pebbles actually floated in the air. On instinct, I reached out and grabbed a couple of them to place them into my spatial storage. I didn’t get any type of identification for the pebbles, but I had a feeling they’d be useful.
Looking up, my gaze met a sky that seemed to mock the very concept of daylight. There was no sun, no moon, and no stars. There was just an endless expanse of deep, blood-red that pulsed with an unholy energy. Scattered throughout this crimson void were pockets of glowing gas, their colors ranging from sickly yellow to venomous green.
As I watched, one of these gaseous clouds ignited, sending a fireball streaking across the sky before it slammed into a distant crag, showering the area with newly formed obsidian shards. The constant, low rumble of distant explosions filled the air, punctuated by the occasional shriek or roar of unseen creatures.
The whole realm seemed to be in a state of perpetual violence—the very air seemed to be at war with its inhabitants.
In the distance, I could make out what looked like rivers, though their flow was too thick and dark to be water. With a sickening lump that weighed down the pit of my stomach, I realized that these were the rivers of blood the demon N'bearn had mentioned—the lifeblood of the plane’s countless victims, forever flowing through this hellish domain.
Scattered across the landscape were patches of dull red moss—the fire fungus N'bearn had alluded to. It seemed to thrive in the areas where fireballs had struck, feeding off the residual heat and energy.
The thought of having to rely on fire fungus as a food source made my stomach turn.
As I took in the hellscape around us, I pushed out with my aura, searching for any immediate threats. To my relief, I sensed nothing in our vicinity. My aura somehow felt even more solid here. It was like it wove itself into the fabric of the realm around me and could now reach out for a mile in all directions. The amount of information that flooded my mind staggered me for a moment—and that was without any creatures within my radius.
You are attempting to form a domain.
Do you wish to proceed?
Note: You are unable to form a Hell or Chaos Mana domain.
Your domain will be made up entirely of Neutral Mana.
I had no idea what a domain meant. I mean, I’d read enough cultivation novels to have an idea, but too many times those novels had been wrong about how things worked here in the Divided Realms, so I knew I couldn’t trust that as a source. None of my wives had ever talked about forming a domain as part of the process of cultivation. I worried that if I formed a domain here, that it would further bind me to this realm. That was the last thing I wanted to do, when my primary objective here was to escape.
The one positive was that it seemed we had a moment to gather ourselves before facing whatever horrors this realm had in store for us. Turning my attention to more immediate concerns, I focused on the demonic whip still wrapped around Neki's waist. With careful movements, I began to untangle it, noting the way the material seemed to writhe and pulse with a life of its own.
At the end of the whip, still clutching it with a death grip, was N'bearn's severed forearm and hand. I couldn't suppress a shudder as I examined the limb. The flesh was a mottled gray-green, covered in black scales and bony protrusions. A six-inch metal hook had been driven into the flesh. Even severed from its owner, the muscles in the arm twitched occasionally, as if still trying to fulfill its master's will.
I took a closer look at the hook and saw that it had tiny glyphs worked into the dull metal. I still didn’t know what to think about the demons of Avernus. They seemed to be masochists, impaling their own flesh with hooks, blades, and spikes, which then became a part of their body.
