Soul caller a litrpg adv.., p.1
Soul Caller: A LitRPG Adventure, page 1
SOUL CALLER
©2024 SETH RING
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ALSO IN SERIES
Soul Caller
Soul Caller 2
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CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Thank you for reading Soul Caller!
From Seth
Groups
LitRPG
PROLOGUE
The moment the warrior stepped through the portal, he knew he was home. Despite the acrid air that filled his lungs and the billowing smoke he saw rising from the factories in the distance, he could feel it in his bones. It had once been a beautiful place, but was beautiful no longer after the mighty hand of the Empire had established itself. Though they had created a bastion powerful enough to withstand the assault of the enemy, the cost had been too much for the world to bear.
Walking through the mud-covered streets toward the far gate that would lead out into what remained of the wilderness, he stopped at the usual spot. A small hole-in-the-wall bar, its double-winged doors hiding all manner of low-life scum and thieves. The bartender had gotten used to seeing him, though he only came once every few years. A sorrowful expression flashed across the bartender’s eyes when the warrior entered, and he put down the glass he was holding. Bellying up to the bar, the warrior nodded his thanks for the glass placed before him and the amber liquid poured into it.
“Is this the last one?” the bartender asked, noticing that no companions had come with him.
Silently, he nodded, tossing his drink back. It was. The last time he had come, there had been one other with him, but no longer. This was the last trip he would take to his world, as there was no one to bring him home when he finally fell. He was the last who would make this trip, the last of his people. The last of his friends. The last to survive the terrible war that surrounded them all. Taking a moment as the alcohol burned its way down his throat and into his stomach, he welcomed the pain, relished it even. These days it seemed that pain was all he had to keep him grounded, to prove that he lived. And now, with the death of his closest friend, that reality was all too sharp. Though he rarely drank these days, he placed his glass on the bar top and gestured for it to be refilled.
Lifting it to his lips, he paused for a moment and spoke a prayer to the spirits, in memory of the deaths of his friends, the death of his people.
“Where are you going to go?” the bartender asked.
It was a question he always asked, though he never received an answer. He felt he owed it to the silent warrior, the basic respect of the warrior’s long service. This time, however, the warrior looked far into the distance, as if he could see through the soot-covered window to the far mountains beyond.
“Out there,” he growled, revealing the sharp canines that had made his people so famous for a time.
“Are you serious? There’s nothing out there,” one of the patrons of the bar muttered, shaking his head.
“It’s true,” the bartender said, leaning forward on the bar. “There isn’t much out there anymore. Whatever you might have expected to find in days gone past, it’s all gone now, savaged by the war.”
The warrior nodded. He knew, he knew all too well. He had spent too much time on that front line, too much time in those broken mountains, fighting against the enemy. It had cost his people dearly. And only a remnant of them had made it out alive. And yet, no matter what the others said, he was going to go. He owed it to the spirit of his people. Leaving the bar and the chatting patrons behind, he made his way through the gate, the heavy gear that adorned his body giving the guards pause. Had he come from the other direction, trying to enter the city, there would have been many questions. But considering that he was leaving, no one cared to stop him.
The ground was familiar, ground he had walked many years in the past. Tracing his way up the main road that led into the Shattered Mountains, he kept watch, waiting for the small path he knew would appear, leading him off into the Badlands. What had once been lush forests and high mountains now lay in absolute tatters, like a vase broken against the hard ground, all jagged spires and hard stone. The ground lay thick with dust, all vegetation destroyed by the fierce war that had been waged upon this world.
There was little that remained of the world that he knew, the world he had grown up in. And yet, there was something, something in its spirit that called to him. He could feel that call now clearer than ever as he lengthened his stride, heading into the deep wilderness. There was nothing here. The men in the bar had been right, there was nothing. And yet further he pressed, passing through canyons of twisted stone, ripped apart by the heavy weapons the enemy had brought to bear. The Empire had many enemies, and at one time or another, all of them had descended on this world, forcing his people to cling tighter to the Empire for protection. Yet even as they did, their world inched closer to the edge of oblivion, carrying their people with it. He remembered when it had finally been too much and he had taken the remnant of his people away, leaving this world to the Empire.
After this world, he had gone to many others, fighting the enemy wherever they appeared. They had destroyed his world, and he had taken the fight to them, making them pay in blood. Nothing he did could save his own world, but he had sworn not to rest until the enemy had been vanquished. The men and women of his people who had gone with him had slowly, one by one, succumbed to the horror of war until only he remained. Did he even remain? His body had been wounded so many times, his flesh replaced with metal manatech that allowed him to fight the enemy so effectively. Bit by little bit, his body had been torn apart, but the Empire’s tinkers were always there to add their improving touch. Bit by little bit, his body and soul had been stripped and replaced, transformed into the most potent weapon of war the Empire had ever seen. And yet, even that was not enough, not enough to protect his companions, not enough to save his world.
So here he was, making one last long trek into the deep wilderness to lay the last of his companions to rest. He owed it to them to place them here in their own world, hoping they might be able to find the rest he never could. When he finally arrived at his destination, he felt something stir in his breast. It was here, all those years ago, where he had completed the first challenge, where he had heeded the Warrior’s call, and yet nothing remained of the once-glorious mountain where he had completed his test. Instead, it was a broken pile of rocks scattered on a small hill. He had not been here when it was destroyed
It was here he had returned, carrying each of his 200 companions back here to be buried. Finding the stone pillar under which the remainder of his companions rested, he took a small box from his pack. It contained the ashes of his last and closest friend, a friend who had saved his life on multiple occasions, had carried him through some of the hardest periods of his life, and had preceded him into death. With a finger, he carved the name of the bravest warrior he had ever known on the top of the box, scratching it deep into the metal.
“Maro.”
Speaking the name of his companion aloud, he lifted his head and began to sing. His voice was terrible, partially replaced by the magical device in his throat that allowed him to operate his metal lungs, but even after all these years, all these battlefields, he knew the words and could sing them without hesitation. A deep pain tore at his heart, but his broken voice didn’t shake as he sang of the courage, of the strength of his friend. There were many times when the warrior wanted to die himself, to let the enemy kill him, but he knew he couldn’t fall. It was the way of his people to fight to the bitter end, and that is what he would do, bleeding the enemy wherever he found them for what they had done to his world. With his song complete, he reached out, seizing the heavy pillar and moving it aside. Into the hollow underneath he placed the box containing the ashes. Two hundred simple boxes, each one named, 200 lives extinguished by the fire and fury of war.
Yet, even as he placed the box among the others, he paused. He could sense it—whatever was calling him in this world was approaching quickly. Like every good warrior, his senses were always alert, always sharp. And though he could see nothing or hear nothing around him, save the gentle wind that kicked up dust, he knew something was there. This world had long been devoid of any sort of animal, and yet an animal approached. Not just one, not just two, but five. His senses, honed by years of fighting on the fiercest battlefields among all the worlds, picked them out, and suddenly he knew—Wolf, Bear, Falcon, Jaguar, Snake. The five Great Spirits that were said to protect this world, that had granted his people their power, their strength, who had not been strong enough to keep this world alive. Five indistinct forms began to coalesce around him, and as he turned to look, he felt their stares.
“Who are you?” Bear asked, staring deep into his soul.
Silent, the warrior said nothing.
“You, you seem familiar, yet so foreign,” Jaguar paced back and forth, his tail lashing as he stared.
Again, the warrior said nothing. The spirits should have had his respect, should have had his honor, and yet he stood among them, almost as an equal. They were not the first spirits he had seen, and should they fight, would not be the first he had killed. They were weak, terribly weak. A memory flashed in his mind from a time long ago when they were strong, the strongest, and yet here they were, faint echoes of themselves, eviscerated by the deaths of his people.
“You were one of the People,” Falcon, the far-seeing, said.
Still, the warrior was silent.
Finally, it was Wolf who spoke, his voice low and rasping.
“He is the last. There are no others.”
Wolf, who was by nature a companion, could feel the loss of the last of the warrior’s kinsmen the most clearly, and it was he who recognized the warrior first.
“He is the last of the people.”
Finally, it was Snake, the ever-crafty one, who spoke last and offered the solution.
“Would you cease so that your people might still be?”
It was a tempting question, a question laden with possibility, and the warrior did not hesitate.
“Of course.”
1
The song of the world sang to Merrick as he ran. It came from every blade of grass, every rustling leaf, and the blue sky overhead flecked with soft white, like sheep’s wool after it had been cleaned. His feet pounded the earth, and he could feel the reverberation beating along with his heart like the war drums shaking in his bones. Up ahead, he could see faint smoke rising from the Teresk village he called home. Rounding the corner, he darted between two trees, his lips curling to reveal his sharp canines.
This was always his favorite part. An unexpected dip in the trail where water had carved a path long ago allowed him to leap high, grasping onto one of the branches of a low-hanging tree. Gripping it tightly, he felt his weight bearing it down toward the ground and his powerful legs pressed off the ground, shooting him up into the air and propelling him forward, completely clearing the village wall and landing in the yard to his home. Though it wouldn’t be his home for long. The realization struck deep within him when he saw the door being fixed in place over the hut he had been using for the last few years.
For a long time, he had simply used an animal skin, letting its heavy weight block out the cold air of winter and pinning it back during the warm months of the summer to allow the breeze to blow in. But now it was being replaced with a wooden door. The craftsmanship wasn’t the issue. It was that a door was going up at all. Young trainees like Merrick who wished to be warriors lived as the warriors did, keeping their huts free of permanent doors, a sign of their readiness to serve the tribe. It was a practice he and his friends had adopted a few years back as they began to prepare for their Warrior Test. And yet, a door was going up, sealing the entrance to the hut. Hearing the sound of his feet on the packed dirt, the man tacking the door in place looked around.
“Ah, Merrick, where have you been? Your sister is looking all over for you. Aren’t you supposed to be getting ready?”
“I am getting ready,” he said, defensive.
The time was coming, the time for the warrior trial, and Merrick was to participate. His sister’s husband, a powerful hunter in his own right, simply grinned, remembering the time before his own trial. Though he had not been chosen as a warrior, he had made a good life for himself, and there was no jealousy in his words as he laughed.
“Well, enjoy that freedom while you can, because it’s not going to last. If you don’t want to catch an earful, you might want to get going. Your sister’s on the warpath today. You’d think you were one of her own kids.”
Nodding his thanks, Merrick paused to grab the small bag of his possessions that had been placed outside the hut and took off again, running. He seemed to always be running, but that suited him just fine. It was good to train the body, just as it was good to train the mind. But something more important lay ahead, the training of the spirit.
As was the custom of his people, Merrick, who had seen almost thirty seasons, had trained for nearly two decades now and was finally of age. It was his cohort’s turn to officially be tested to see if the spirits favored them. His sister, who already had a family of her own, had been caring for him these past years, and he was thankful, but it was time for him to forge his own way. Whether or not he succeeded in the Warrior’s Test, he would not return. If he succeeded, he would accept a position in the tribe. If he failed, he would begin his long, wandering journey as he looked for a place for himself. Jorn, his brother-in-law, was one such wanderer who had found his place here with the tribe after meeting Merrick’s sister, Estva.
Many of the youngsters in his cohort were worried, worried they might have to leave the village if they were not favored. But Merrick had been leaving the village for years. Though he had not left the valley completely, he knew what lay beyond, knew the song the mountains and forest could sing, and welcomed it. Heading for the tall peak in the distance, he grinned when he heard the shout behind him. He heard his name, called out by Estva, and responded by speeding up. Though strong in her own right, none but a warrior could catch Merrick when he started to run, and he soon left his sister behind. His running took him through the village, dodging past the hunters selling their goods. He ignored the shouts as he continued to speed up, nearly colliding with one of the heavy bulls laden down with furs from the trappers.
With a quick twist of his body, he maneuvered around it, startling the bull and forcing the hunter leading it to hang on to the lead rope with all his might. Still, Merrick didn’t stop, and soon he had left the small market behind. His run took him through the village, heading out of the gate on the other side where he caught sight of some of his cohort up ahead. It had been two weeks since he had last seen them, since his latest journey had taken him to the far end of the valley and back, and when he saw them he nearly burst out in laughter. All of the Teresk were handsome, with long, straight limbs of tightly packed muscle and impressive heights. Their long, pointed ears protruded from their multi-colored hair, and the faint bluish-green tint of their skin allowed them to blend into the forests with ease. The two sharp canines that appeared when they rolled their lips back were strong and bright and had to be filed down regularly lest they grow so long they couldn’t be contained in their lips.
