The Ghost Tower: A LitRPG Adventure (Kingmaker Saga Book 3)

Finally reunited with his friends, Terran faces a blight which threatens the health of Mother Tree. As they hunt down the source of the rot, each of the companions struggle to find their place within the group. Together they learn that their world is not the new home for their gaming minds that they expected, but one with a long dangerous history. If they cannot sniff out the cunning traps that have been laid before them, then they'll end up like everyone else who has been thrust into these troubled lands—dead.

Chapter One

The figure in the cavernous brown robe whistled a happy song while he worked, clinking glasses and tubes together for percussion, a lightness in his heart that hadn't been there for hundreds of years. Black vines crept across the table, moving jars and tins out of the way, bringing him utensils as he desired, their resurging effectiveness reminding him of the power he'd once enjoyed.
Grimchar the Necrochanter caught a glimpse of himself in a polished silver pan and for the first time in a long time, he didn't recoil, but pressed his finger against his wrinkled, spotted cheek, celebrating the good fortune that had stumbled upon his door a few days ago.
"Oh, tralala," said the ancient mage, his gaze falling upon the adventurer that hung nearly motionless in a yellow vat of preservation liquid. "What a delicious energy you bring to the tower."
The poor sot had escaped the continent of Belavar on a pirate ship, which had crashed north of Salt Luck. His bad luck had continued when he was captured by a marauding band of Crag Trolls, who'd failed to keep a good eye on their charge. The adventurer, Falimar, had escaped with the help of his sentient cloak, but in his haste to escape, had stumbled through the Silent Plain and miraculously found Grimchar's tower. Grimchar knew these things because the information from Falimar's mind was slowly transferring over as he sucked him dry of energy.
The project Grimchar was working on slowly took shape under his aged hands, long fingernails as black as coal. His first chance encounter with an Offworlder back at Wunderlust Keep had not gone as well as his more recent one, destroying a valuable black crystal chip that he'd found recently. Nor had he known at the time that Terran was the leader of Gneiss Glen, a point of knowledge that would have ensured more caution. Grimchar had been focused on the rotted body of Lord Ostric, which had contained a valuable essence, not realizing the real prize was in the young man with the lynx companion.
"I won't make the same mistake a second time," said Grimchar to no one in particular.
If he weren't bound by the game world rules, he could have marched into Gneiss Glen, slaughtered the Rock Leaf Elves en mass, and taken the "mother" lode in one fell swoop, but having given up his former position within the game for a shot at immortality meant that he couldn't take the most direct route to his goal.
But he wasn't worried.
The hard part, surviving during the time between, when there were no Offworlders to feast upon, was over. It'd taken a lot of judicious planning to make it this far, but unlike his unsuspecting victims, he wasn't affected by their challenges.
The rot vines lifted a seething black mass for Grimchar to examine. The spores had taken a long time to perfect, but he knew they would do the job. He pressed his hand against the sickly yellowish sphere at the center of the room, drawing energy for the next task. His tired body wanted to take it for his own and rebuild broken flesh, but such luxuries were not yet at hand. Eventually he would be able to revel in health, but until then, sacrifices had to be made.
The fell energy that came from his outstretched hands crackled in the air, forcing the spore mass to shrink as it was compressed. Grimchar leaned into the creation, gritting his teeth so hard a molar in back split, spilling cancerous pus down his throat, but he persisted, maintaining the flow of magic from his hands. If he failed in his task, then nothing else would matter.
As the spore mass crunched into its final shape, hunks of hair fell from his head, and his pinky fingernail fell clean off, shattering into yellow-brown smoke when it landed, but then he could release the flow and watch the item cool, hissing nightmarishly.
He lifted the rot shard from the vines, which crumbled to dust, their purpose complete, and examined it closely. After a full ten minutes of study, he let the relief flow from his lips in a wheezing sigh.
"It is finished," said Grimchar, weary from effort.
But he wasn't finished. There was one more step.
The necrochanter made the long procession to the bottom of his tower, past the garden and his library, ignoring the buzzing of wings and gnashing of teeth that flittered around his head. A bone in his right foot snapped when he reached the bottom floor, but such pain was a familiar friend.
When he reached the entryway, an enormous black arm, covered in bark and insects, reached through the opening, collecting the rot shard from his hands. The mere touch of the creature made his skin turn black and crack like a baked desert. Grimchar cackled lightly as the beast marched away from his tower.
"A trap within a trap," he said, leaning against the threshold. "It begins."