Shadowborn exile a litrp.., p.3
Shadowborn Exile: A LitRPG Progression Fantasy, page 3
Attica remembered a particular herd he had encountered on a scouting mission with the Vanguard. Even with eight official members and four others like him, they had chosen to avoid it, especially after spotting a trio of glintfangs.
Glintfangs—wolves wreathed in electric-white fur—never ran alone. They moved with the herds, streaks of raw speed and light, impossible to isolate, impossible to outrun.
With that many glintfangs, a Vanguard named Cassian had said, picking them off one by one won’t work.
Is that the only way to deal with a herd? Tarnal asked the older boy.
Depends on the size. But generally, yes. If you can’t separate them, you don’t fight. You run. Or you die.
Attica used his monocular to examine a bright cluster on the horizon. “Definitely a herd,” he told his shade. “But it’s on the other side. We won’t be going that far.”
He moved on, scaling back up to the first tier when the path allowed.
The crescent-shaped rock loomed ahead, jagged and ancient—a curved fang from some long-dead beast. Time and mana storms had scarred its surface, carving deep pits into the stone. At its peak, the rock split into a narrow gap, a wound torn open.
The lantern was nestled in the crook where the rock curved back toward the ground. The same petrified bowl rested at its peak, undisturbed.
“Found you.” Attica unhooked the small ritual flask, uncorked it, and let a single drop of essence fall into the basin.
Blue fire ignited at once. Color rushed outward, racing across the land like spilled ink, swallowing the gray in waves too vivid to name. The stone beneath his feet brightened; the distant ruins, once muted, took on shades he couldn’t name. His breath caught as the lantern’s hues swelled, rich and blinding, flooding his vision with a world that was almost too much to bear.
Attica stood transfixed, drinking it in. Is this what the Spiralrealm was meant to look like? Or what it used to be, before the dark took hold?
His eyes burned. Not from the light. From something deeper. Something he couldn’t name. Then, like before, the color collapsed.
Drained. Pulled back. Faded until only the dim, ghostly glow of the lantern remained.
Attica blinked hard, his vision slow to adjust. The weight of monotone grays settled in again, and for the first time, he felt something like loss.
His shade shifted beside him, a silent reminder.
“Two more lanterns to go,” he exhaled, voice rough. “We’re doing this tonight.”
His shade curled around him, slow and deliberate. A silent plea. Stop. Rest. Recover. But Attica pressed forward. “I know,” he told his shadow. “I know.”
But I don’t want to stop.
A bark rang out in the fog—sharp, distant, but unmistakable. Attica’s shade surged, locking around him like living armor. He stilled, waiting and listening.
Nothing.
The sound had been far off. Not an immediate threat. His shade lingered for a moment longer, then loosened, drifting back into its natural form as Attica pressed on, descending into an ancient creek bed that had once flowed with essence.
Remnants of what had been lay all around him, the faint glow clinging to the rocks, the near-silver sheen of the dry riverbed. Once, something had thrived here.
There had been people in the Spiralrealm before the Vanguard. People who had lived freely, who hadn’t been forced into old fortresses, hiding underground and behind thick walls, forced to adapt to dark essence.
We used to mean something, Attica thought as he ran a hand along the smoothed stone. What happened to us?
The Vanguard took what they could from the upper tiers of the Spiralrealm, remnants of a past no one understood. Over the years, Attica had seen all kinds of things—intricately carved bone tools, fragments of pottery with fading patterns, the twisted remains of metal contraptions no one could explain. Once, he had even seen a small figurine—a man and a woman locked in an embrace, their features smoothed by time. A moment of love, frozen in the ruin of a world long forgotten.
All of it was dust now. Just like he would be if he stepped into a flashwraith’s light.
His eyes lifted after another long, winding trek through the gloom. The terrain had since blurred into shadow and silence, the weight of the Spiralrealm pressing in on all sides.
“There it is,” he told his shade, just to say something.
Atop the next hill, half lost in the swirling fog, the third lantern waited.
Before he approached, Attica scanned the area for any track marks or flaylights. The mist was thick here, dense enough to shroud anything lying in wait. He’d heard rumors that some flashwraiths were capable of stalking, slipping through fog like drifting phantoms.
He wouldn’t give them the chance.
Attica kept low, his shade sliding ahead, rippling in the wind. He climbed carefully, spreading his weight, staying close to the earth, always keeping his vision wide.
Only when he was certain the hill was empty did Attica rise. He uncorked the ritual flask and let a single drop of blue essence fall into the petrified wood bowl.
This time, he didn’t just want to see the color, he wanted to experience it.
His eyes widened as the fire bloomed and light swelled outward, cutting color through the fog. It rolled down the hillside in rippling waves. The gray fog vanished—replaced by deep, brilliant tones that touched everything in sight.
Attica raised his hand to it, and for the first time, he noticed something.
Thin, delicate lines traced the skin of his fingers and palms, etched there as if carved into him long ago. They glowed faintly in the lantern’s light, an intricate network of runes that flickered in the shifting glow. His ears filled with whispers, voices Attica couldn’t understand.
“What’s this?” His breath caught as he brought his hand closer to his face—
And then, just as before, the colors collapsed. The runes faded. Gone.
“Did you see that?” he asked, turning to his shade. The dark figure hovered over him, silent as ever. Attica lifted his hand. “There was something there. On my skin.”
His shade remained still. Watching.
Attica flexed his fingers and frowned. The markings were gone. No trace of them remained, nothing but the usual roughness of his calloused hands.
“It doesn’t matter now,” he said, shaking off the unease, the exhaustion that was starting to creep up. Attica looked toward the horizon. He exhaled sharply, casting any lingering doubt aside.
One more lantern. One more climb.
Chapter Five
Attica pushed too hard.
He felt it deep in his bones, a dragging ache that no quick rest could erase. Every step had grown heavier, his movements slower, his thoughts dulled at the edges.
His shade had noticed long before he did. It clung to him now—thick, leaden, the weight pressing against his back, urging him to stop. But Attica ignored it.
One more hill. One more stretch. One more lantern.
His boots scraped over uneven ground, the fog swallowing the path ahead. He forced himself forward, but his footing wavered. The path wasn’t even difficult—Attica had crossed far worse. But his body no longer responded the way it should.
“Come on,” he said. “Come on …” When that didn’t work, he checked his map, willing himself onward, until—
Hadrian’s voice cut through: The body bends before it breaks.
Attica stilled. He had heard that phrase many times, during relentless training sessions where Hadrian had forced him to fight his own shade again and again, past the point of exhaustion.
“For the settlement. For the Painter,” Attica murmured, conceding to his body and his mentor’s words. “We will rest,” he told his shade, finally giving in.
He soon found a narrow alcove where a fractured wall still held strong against time. It wasn’t much, but it would do. Stretching just enough to ease the ache in his muscles, Attica let out a slow breath. His fingers brushed against the gourd at his waist.
Just a small amount.
Attica uncorked the vessel and inhaled. The raw essence inside carried a faint metallic tang—power without form, without shape, without control. It steadied his nerves, dulled the gnaw of hunger without actually imbibing the mana itself.
This was what the Vanguard were trained to do. Only in dire circumstances did they drink it outright. That would be depriving the settlement of what it needed to survive.
Better, Attica thought as he got comfortable. The moment his breathing slowed, he noticed it. A glow. Not from the sky above, but below.
Attica frowned and leaned forward. A shifting array of strobing light flickered through the ruins beneath him, pulsing across the second tier in shifting patterns. He had never seen anything like it before.
His shade curled around him, its presence thick with unease. Attica ignored it.
Without a second thought, he pushed off the ground, scanning for a new vantage point, one that would allow his shade to slip forward and see what lay below. But his shadow wouldn’t budge. It lingered, knotted around him, its weight heavier than before.
Attica hesitated, fingers twitching at his side.
“If you won’t help me, then I’ll do it myself,” he hissed. Attica took a step forward, but his shade resisted him, holding firm like an unseen tether.
A flicker of irritation burned through him. “Come on.”
Still, it wouldn’t let go. His shade resisted—not just cautious, not just wary, but something deeper. A warning. A refusal.
With a sharp inhale, Attica forced his tethered shadow to move, pushing their connection forward. Their bond loosened, reluctant but yielding. Attica pressed on and slipped behind a rock, where he finally got a clear view of the ruins below.
A chill ran down Attica’s spine as he saw a type of flashwraith he had never encountered before. What … is that?
From its broad, sinewy shoulders, the creature’s upper body unfurled in two directions at once, splitting the fracturing bone of its upper back. Two distinct stems extended upward, each narrowing into a skull-like dome ringed with ridges of sinew. At their crowns, an ever-flickering aura of searing light pulsed, radiating a spectral glow.
It was unlike any flashwraith Attica had ever encountered before.
I have to kill it, he thought, his hands trembling.
He slipped into the shadows, moving with silent precision. His shade remained tense, still resisting. Attica ignored its unease. His hand drifted toward the stone flask given to him by the Seer. How much is in there?
He knew the flask held something stronger than any essence he had ever known. Power beyond measure. Power sealed away. And yet, it was forbidden. He had already seen what a mere drop could do—how it ignited the lanterns, spilling sacred color into the world before pulling it back into nothing. Whatever was inside the ritual flask, it was far stronger than anything the community normally used.
Dayanne had reminded him of this before he left the Seer’s sanctum.
“You mustn’t drink it,” she had warned.
“Why?” had been his reply, a smirk tugging at his lips. He knew he had failed to flirt the moment Dayanne’s expression shifted—her eyes narrowing, the faint trace of incredulity hardening into disappointment.
“I was just joking,” he had added quickly, but the damage was done.
A beat passed before she exhaled, the tension easing just enough for a small, knowing smile to form. “Good luck,” was all Dayanne said before turning back to the Sanctum.
Now far beyond the settlement, Attica imagined the renown that would follow him if he not only completed the trial but returned having slain a new kind of flashwraith. But with his waning energy levels, and without knowing how strong it was, this could prove challenging.
We’re not supposed to consume the essence we bring back to the settlement either, Attica thought, his hand still on the ritual flask. But I’ve seen the Vanguard do it before. Sometimes, it’s necessary.
Hadrian’s words echoed in his mind. Out there, the rules are different.
Attica moved his hand away. For once, it wasn’t his shade guiding him. It was his own will. All of his training, his respect for the laws of his people, his reverence for the Seer—all of it told him to leave the flask untouched.
He did just that as he reached for the gourd instead, only for his shade to stop him.
Attica froze. His shade moved on its own, curling around his wrist. Not guiding. Forcing. His fingers twitched. His shade pressed harder, guiding his hand back toward the ritual flask.
“What?” he whispered. “You know I can’t drink the Seer’s flask. Why do you want me to—?”
He wrenched his arm free, the tension snapping between them.
“I’m in charge,” he reminded his shadow. With deliberate intent, Attica reached for his gourd instead. He uncorked it and inhaled the raw essence. His shade eased in response, as if momentarily appeased.
If I do this, I have to kill whatever that is down there and replace the essence. Attica lifted the gourd and took a small sip.
The effect was immediate.
Power coursed through him, hot and sharp, racing along his veins. His vision sharpened, the edges of the world hardening into perfect clarity. His muscles coiled with newfound strength, the dull ache in his limbs vanishing. His shade flared outward, blooming with dark energy, its form pulsing as if feeding off the excess mana.
He capped the gourd and slipped it back into place at his belt right next to the ritual flask.
He locked eyes onto the two-headed flashwraith. This is it, he thought, emboldened by his newfound strength. For the settlement. For the Painter.
Chapter Six
The pure essence from his gourd made Attica feel unstoppable.
The essence burned through his veins, sharpening everything—the jagged terrain, the shifting light, the very air. Every motion felt fluid, his body weightless yet powerful, as if the world had slowed just enough for him to move through it like a shadow.
He leapt soundlessly from his vantage point, his shade stretching and gripping the stone, an extension of himself.
Attica descended, slipping down the jagged rock formations with an effortless, predatory grace, his shade anchoring him in silence. The terrain here was rougher with craggy overhangs, deep fissures where essence had once flowed, and towering spires jutting skyward in unnatural formations.
Attica reached the bottom and melted into the darkness, his shade pressing close.
The two-headed flashwraith stood motionless, its eerie, masklike faces lowered, as if in silent contemplation. The stillness felt wrong.
What is it looking at?
The monster remained unnervingly still. Then, as if reacting to some unseen thought, the creature lifted a clawed hand and traced the ridges of its left face—a slow, deliberate motion, almost … melancholic.
Attica barely had time to process before the flashwraith shifted, revealing the object it had been examining.
A stone?
Something about the way it studied the stone unsettled him. But there was no time to wonder about its motives.
Attica moved, dark energy rippling over him as he shot forward, his shade coiling tight, lending him speed. Shadowblades flickered to life along his forearms as Attica zeroed in on the creature’s exposed flank.
The strike was perfect. Precise. Lethal. Just as he had trained.
But the flashwraith had two heads. At the last moment, one of its twisting skulls snapped toward him, its empty sockets erupting in a flare of searing light.
Attica barely had time to react. He twisted away, throwing himself sideways as a blast of energy tore through the space he had occupied moments before. The rock shattered, fissures burning deep into its surface as he hit the ground hard, rolling.
His shade tightened around him, absorbing the impact.
Attica came to a stop. He sucked in a breath, blinking against the afterimage of the creature’s light.
This one wasn’t like the others. It didn’t react. It anticipated. It tracked him. It was smarter. Both heads, moving independently, hunting in tandem.
The flashwraith turned fully toward him, claws burning brighter, the light intensifying.
A pulse of energy flared and the creature released another blinding blast of light. He sprinted left just as the attack sliced through the mist, carving a jagged scar into the rock. Stone erupted around him, shards crashing in a violent cascade.
Attica took advantage of the chaos that followed, augmented by his newfound power and speed. He sprang forward as his shade latched onto the spiral-shaped formations overhead. Using the formation as leverage, Attica swung himself forward, propelling his body over the beast and twisting midair to land on the opposite side.
His shadowblade tore into its torso, carving through sinew and light-flesh alike. The wound flared violently, sparks of essence bursting outward as the two-headed flashwraith reeled back.
For a moment, Attica thought he had done it.
Then, the creature slammed into him, its weight driving both of them back into the rock wall. His shade reacted instantly, hardening over Attica’s ribs, yet the sheer force still sent him crashing into a jagged formation.
Pain flared through his back as he kicked the beast away.
The flashwraith lunged for him again, claws igniting with light, slashing in a frenzied blur of burning arcs. The creature grew rabid, twin heads shifting independently, tracking him, predicting him.
Attica barely had time to react.
He twisted; his shade pulling him into the shadows between the fractured stones.
Attica feinted left, then pivoted sharply, sliding beneath the creature’s lunge. His shadowblade struck true, driving upward into its abdomen. The flashwraith convulsed as Attica held it there for a moment, certain he had won, certain he had killed the monster.
But the two-headed creature wasn’t done.
A flash of movement was followed by a sharp, searing white-hot burst as claws drove into his left eye.
