The Quintessence: Crucible Book 1 - Awakened: (A LitRPG Western Cultivation Novel) Read online

  The Quintessence: Crucible

  Book One - Awakened

  C.M. Carney

  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

  Epilogue

  The End of

  Sign up for Updates from C.M. Carney

  Please Review

  Stay in Touch

  Acknowledgments

  Patreon Shout Out

  Become a Patron

  LitRPG

  GameLit and More

  The Quintessence: Crucible (Book One – Awakened) by C.M. Carney

  * * *

  www.cmcarneywrites.com

  © 2020 C.M. Carney

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact: [email protected]

  * * *

  Cover by Amalia Chitulescu.

  http://www.amaliach.com

  Dedication

  * * *

  To my soon-to-be wife Erica.

  * * *

  Thank You for making me a better writer

  and a better man.

  * * *

  I’d give you all my Qi.

  * * *

  I Love You.

  Prologue

  Inquisitor Tyrell Vyr Lyran waited until the merchant dropped the Qi stones into the Bishop's chubby hand before tapping the gemstone on his left arm guard.

  An instant later, the snap of cracking wood filled the room as the door splintered off its hinges. A thick-necked Templar, the military arm of the Church of the Sovereign, entered as the broken planks slammed to the floor.

  The large man stepped aside, and the five other men from Tyrell's borrowed Templar squad rushed into the room, their blades shimmering with the yellow Qi of the Power Core. Two pairs of eyes spun towards the invading knights, the merchant's swimming with alarm, the Bishop's pulsing with arrogant rage.

  "How dare you," the Bishop spat at the Templars. "I am the First Bishop of Pyrthos. You have no right to you interrupt me while I minister to the spiritual needs of a member of my flock."

  The Bishop pushed the merchant aside and opened his cores, revealing the full weight of his spirit. For the briefest of moments, the approaching knights slowed, but Tyrell stood, casting aside his role as the merchant's guard and embraced his full power. He lashed out with a wave of Qi, smashing the Bishop's spirit like a hand crushing a fly.

  As expected, the Bishop's spirit was as weak as his character. The gold frocked priest was twice Tyrell's age, but a life of venal largess had robbed the man of his drive. He had long ago stopped improving himself, and by embracing his indolence, he weakened all humanity. He no longer served the Sovereign gods and the First Ones above in the manner Doctrine proscribed. Instead, he served only himself.

  The man should have been far stronger than Tyrell. He'd awakened his Radiant Core long ago and earned his entry into the Sovereign priesthood because of it. But in the intervening decades, the Bishop had only advanced that core to the Third Rank. By comparison, Tyrell was on the cusp of advancing his Power Core to the Fifth Rank and had almost double the Qi reserves of the Bishop. It was a testament to the truth of Doctrine.

  The Bishop glared at Tyrell, struggling to crawl out from under the weight of Tyrell's spirit.

  "Your years of sloth are showing, Your Eminence," Tyrell said, stepping forward.

  "How dare you," the Bishop sputtered, a twinge of fear bubbling behind his arrogance. "You have violated the will of the Sovereign gods and the First Ones above. It is heresy."

  "You are not wrong, Your Eminence." Tyrell stepped past the merchant, his lean frame towering over the older, slovenly upper priest. "Heresy has stained the Church of the Sovereign gods, but it is yours, not ours."

  "And just who do you think you are who can lecture a duly consecrated First Bishop of the Church?" the smaller man sputtered. Tyrell ignored the man's words and stared; his grey-blue eyes calm.

  Tyrell sensed the corrupt grain merchant slink away from the Bishop, perhaps hoping more distance would lessen his sins. His attempt failed.

  "You may go now, Rykard," Tyrell said without taking his eyes from the Bishop. "But, ensure that you meet the terms of your penance, or you will share in the Bishop's fate."

  "What fate? You have no right to dictate to me," the Bishop blurted, but Tyrell heard the fear leaking into the older man's tone. "Just who do you think you are?"

  Tyrell said nothing. He just held the Bishop's gaze and waited. The merchant, whose bribe to the Bishop would have allowed the price gouging of grain to continue, lowered his gaze, refusing to look at either Tyrell or the Bishop. He backed from the room, bowing and speaking in an incomprehensible mumble.

  "I cannot hear you, Rykard."

  "I'm sorry, your lordship, I will submit to the lash as agreed."

  "And?"

  "And the poor of Pyrthos will enjoy six months of my finest grain for free." Tyrell suspected the last two words pained the corrupt merchant more than a knife to the gut.

  "See that you keep your promise Rykard. I will know if you do not. And I am no lord. Do not refer to me as such again."

  "Of course, Inquisitor, my deepest apologies. Thank you for granting me the opportunity to save my immortal soul."

  The last scuffle of the merchant's feet seemed a fitting accompaniment to the understanding that filled the Bishop's eyes. Inappropriate joy seeped into Tyrell on seeing it, and a satisfied grin curled his lips. With a clench of his jaw, Tyrell pushed the poisoned thoughts down and made a mental note to take penance that evening.

  "Inquisitor?" the Bishop sputtered in shock, his weak knees threatening to send the older man tumbling to the ground. Tyrell snapped, and the two closest Templars caught the priest by the arms where he became dead weight.

  "Bishop Cartyr Fel Jonh, you have violated Doctrine and the will of the Sovereign gods, the High Father, and the First Ones above with your corruption and your heresy. I formally accuse you of selling the favors of your office to the highest bidder. The people have suffered starvation and disease for your greed. Hope that the damage done to your flock is not too great, or you will face the flames of the Under Realm in the next life."

  "You're one of those zealots," the Bishop seethed, the last of his courage surging to the fore. "A fool who takes Doctrine literally. Doctrine is a guide, a framework. Only a fool
takes it as ..."

  "As what, Bishop? As Doctrine?"

  The Bishop opened and closed his mouth, unable to mount any defense. "Doctrine is the law of the First Ones," Tyrell quoted. "Handed down to the Sovereign gods by the Herald herself during the Arrival," Tyrell's words hummed with deep passion. "They care not for your interpretations."

  The Bishop sputtered again. Tyrell reached up and tore the golden chain free of the Bishop's frock, and in an instant, the man was no longer a shepherd of men's souls, but a weak older man who'd wasted his life.

  "The Questioning will reveal the depths of your sins and grant you a chance to make amends for your crimes."

  "The Questioning?" The man who had been Bishop trembled in fear as the full weight of his imminent fate filled him. A moment later, Tyrell heard a trickle of liquid splatter the stone floor beneath his robes. "Please, no."

  Tyrell grimaced in disgust and stepped back, avoiding the growing pool. He waved a hand backward, and the Templars took the pathetic man from his sight.

  "I have friends in high places," the wretch who had been Bishop blubbered in a barely audible whisper, his will stolen by the truth of what was to come.

  "None of them will help you."

  The blubbering turned to a high-pitched wail as the Templars dragged him from the room. The sound echoed up and down the hallways and back to Tyrell's ears, the intense silence of the Bishop's underlings, providing no barrier to their onetime master's fear.

  Tyrell walked through the grand set of doors at the far end of the chambers and onto the balcony overlooking the city. Far below, walking along thoroughfares bordering the river, the people of Pyrthos looked no more significant than insects. Tyrell sighed, understanding just how easy it had been for the Bishop to think of them as such.

  And once they were no longer people, their plight became an easy victim of his greed.

  Tyrell scowled as his thoughts turned to the commonness, the utter averageness of the man's corruption. Sadly, such corruption had become common since the High Father's disappearance had drawn the eyes of the Sovereign gods away from the day-to-day management of the Church that bore their name.

  He did not blame the gods, for ordinary men had corrupted the Church of the Sovereign gods. Ordinary men would need to cleanse it.

  Such cleansing would take time, and more men like Tyrell than the Church currently possessed.

  Tyrell became lost in these thoughts until the sound of boots on stone announced the Templar Lieutenant's arrival. "What is it, Lieutenant?"

  "The accused has demanded counsel."

  "As is his right. See to it, please. But search the solicitor. Many a man set to face The Questioning has sought the easy way out. We cannot allow the ex-Bishop's soul to be further burdened by the sin of suicide."

  "Yes sir," the Lieutenant said and turned to leave.

  "Please congratulate your men for me, Lieutenant. They did well under difficult circumstances."

  "Thank you, sir.” The pleasure was mine."

  "Be careful not to revel in the Bishop's corruption, Lieutenant. His fall weakens us all."

  "I meant nothing by it, sir. It was an unfortunate choice of words."

  Tyrell nodded in understanding. "Fear not the error, Lieutenant, for it lets us see the proper way forward. Use this as an opportunity for improvement and choose your words with more wisdom from here on out."

  "I will, Inquisitor. Thank you." The Templar Lieutenant bowed at the waist and held the pose for a moment longer than was strictly proper, ensuring Tyrell that he’d taken the words to heart. With a crinkle of leather, the Lieutenant stood tall and moved towards the doors.

  "And Lieutenant, please close the doors behind you. I must cultivate and cycle to prepare for The Questioning."

  "Of course, sir. Thank you, sir." The Lieutenant eased the door closed, leaving Tyrell alone.

  Only then did the Inquisitor let his ever-present rage burn within him. His fingers clenched the marble railing, his knuckles going white as the pressure built within them. He gazed upwards, away from Pyrthos to the gilded top of the tower and all its garish splendor.

  How has it come to this? How has the Church become so corrupt?

  He looked to the horizon, where the snow-capped mountains cut the sky like a serrated blade. Hanging above them, the smallest of Crucible's two moons began its nightly descent.

  Why have you forsaken us, High Father? Tyrell cursed himself for weakness. The High Father's disappearance a century before had devastated the Sovereign gods, for Doctrine stated without the High Father to lead them, the humans of Crucible would fall into heresy.

  And with heresy, the Phage would come.

  Tyrell's heart sunk as the moon dipped below the horizon, and he did nothing but stare for several long minutes. Somewhere beyond those peaks, to the East, was the Serpentine. The narrow sea's swift currents separated Bastion, the city of the Sovereign gods, from most of human-populated Crucible. Deep in his soul, Tyrell knew his crusade to cleanse the corruption from the Church would someday take him to the city of the gods. But that time was far off.

  For now, he would prepare himself for the rigors of The Questioning, for the truth-seeking ritual demanded much of questioner and supplicant alike.

  Tyrell turned from the wondrous vista and sat cross-legged on the hard stone. He placed his hands upon his knees and closed his eyes. His breathing calmed, and he turned his thoughts inward. The meditative state required to cultivate and cycle was the very first skill taught to all children of Crucible, but a man could devote multiple lifetimes to the discipline, and there would always be more to learn.

  Advancement, improvement, the never-ending journey towards perfection; this was the goal of all life, whether it be the worm in the field or the First Ones above.

  Tyrell opened his channels, the energetic pathways that flowed through his body in parallel to his nervous system, and siphoned at the raw Aether swirling about him. The ever-present field of energy moved through everything and was the motive power of all creation.

  While the Aether had given birth to life, the cultivation and purification of the raw, corrupted power into purified Quintessence was the purpose of life. By using Quintessence, colloquially known as Qi, a mortal disciple of the spiritual arts could eventually become a god.

  And the gods existed to fight the Phage.

  Since his earliest days, Tyrell had dedicated his life to achieving godhood. Not for love of power, but for the love of Doctrine, for the love of the people of Crucible. With time and dedication, he would advance to whatever pinnacle destiny allowed and would use his might to fight the Phage.

  But, if the Church remained corrupt, humanity would forfeit the protection of the First Ones. Then nothing would stop a full-scale Phage invasion. Tyrell had sworn his life to root out the corruption that threatened to doom them all. To save the world, Tyrell would need the power of a god, even though he was still just a man.

  He settled his mind and turned to his task, pulling the Aether through his channels, the sting of its passage akin to the burn of grain alcohol as it flowed down one's throat. An ever-present reminder to all disciples of the spiritual arts, that they must maintain focus and control at all times.

  It had been many a year since the ambient Aether had posed any threat to Tyrell's channels, but the sensation was there to remind him to treat the Aether with the respect it deserved.

  Ever vigilant. Ever humble.

  Tyrell had only just settled into the rhythmic cycle of cultivation and purification when the world split in two.

  Even through closed eyes, the burst of light was near blinding, and Tyrell cried out in pain and fear, his enhanced reflexes throwing his arm before his eyes. A fierce wind exploded past him.

  A rift, Tyrell thought. The Bishop's corruption was worse than even I feared.

  He drew Qi from both his Foundation and Power Cores, ready to lash out with his arcanes at whatever Phage-born horror had pierced the veils between Crucible and the Under
Realm. Still blinded, he sent a Searing Lance towards the ear-splitting sound.

  The thick bar of pure golden light was the preferred offensive arcane of the Order of Inquisition, for its devastating effects on the Phage and the Phage-touched humans they used as cannon fodder. It was the most potent and costly weapon he possessed, so it was a shock when it dissipated to nothingness mere inches from his extended palm, draining a quarter of his Power Core Qi.

  The light disappeared with such suddenness that only the spots filling Tyrell's vision remained as proof that it ever existed. He blinked through fierce tears, his other hand raised, ready to send another volley when a melodic otherworldly voice spoke.

  "I offer my apologies for your vision, Tyrell Vyr Lyran. Sometimes I forget the frailty of mortal bodies."

  Tyrell stumbled to his feet, tears burning his eyes as he struggled to find the source of the voice. The blurry form waved a causal backhand, and in an instant, all of Tyrell's discomfort disappeared.

  Standing before him was a woman in form, but something far greater in spirit. She crackled with Qi, and Tyrell gasped on realizing that she was the source of the light. Her powerful spirit nearly burned him where he stood. This woman bore an incomprehensible amount of power.