Slumrat Rising

They landed at Lowi International, which served the world with spellbirds that could hold three hundred people in varying degrees of comfort. He walked over to the ticket counter, directly ignoring the snaking, pythoning queue. He rapped his knuckles on the counter in front of the harried woman who was desperately sorting through her screen. “I need a flight to Harbin. Right now, or as soon as possible. Give me the best available seat.”

She looked up, her endless training restraining her utterly justified snarl. She was about to direct him to the back of the line when she spotted the pin. Her tablet made a quiet ding. She smiled very politely. “No problem sir. The next flight is in four hours. Please enjoy the complimentary First Class lounge in Terminal E while you wait.”

First Class Private Cabin Ticket to Harbin- 301 Credits Deducted. 699 Credits remaining in your travel budget.

“Out of curiosity, what’s that cost in wen?”

“Wen? I’d have to check the rates… Ah, in wen, 9,750 plus taxes and fees.”

I once killed someone for eleven wen and my shoes. I don’t think I could even buy a bottle of water here for eleven wen. He smiled, thanked her, and made his way to the lounge. On the way, he snagged a book from a shop in the terminal. It still felt weird and amazing. He could just walk into the store, grab a book and walk out. The spells in the store picked up his badge, his credit account was fractionally deducted and now he had a book. No need to ever think about money, let alone own any.

The First Class lounge was something. What, Truth couldn’t say. But something. A load of people who clearly considered themselves very important people, read and worked in leather club chairs. There was a bar, which almost no one was using, and a café, which a lot of people were using but only to drink coffee. It felt dislocated. A sort of nowhere space within a nowhere space, trapping the extremely wealthy, and those traveling on expense accounts.

He had some eggs for breakfast. They were fine. Not what he was expecting in a first-class lounge, really. Just decently cooked eggs on decent toast, some pathetically underpowered hot sauce, and phenomenally good coffee.

“Is this… the good life?” Truth wondered. “Is this what we kill for? It can’t be, surely. When we pulled out Soo Yin from Kofi, we went to the private terminal at the airport. Maybe that’s where the real luxury is.” Truth shook his head and went for a massage.

“A blend of Imperial Purple Rosemary and Vitriated Eucalyptus essential oils are added to one hundred percent pure Grao Nut Oil. The ratio is a secret!” His tiny but shockingly strong masseuse chirped. Then she dug her elbow in between his spine and shoulder blade, sending electric jolts through his back, followed by incredible release.

“Oh. My. God. Are you using spells for this?”

“Hehehe. Yep! But the spell is also a secret!”

“This is so good.” Truth moaned.

“Your physique is ridiculously aesthetic, you know that right? Are you a body model?”

“HAH! No, I work in private security for a multinational.” She stopped massaging for a moment.

“And you can afford the First-Class Lounge? And my fee? Seriously?”

“I’m on expenses, I’m on expenses and Starbrite.”

“Oh, my God. That's ridiculous. Starbrite security flies first class. You people, I swear. Your girlfriend must be unbearable.” She gushed.

“Don’t have one, actually.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry! Boyfriend must be unbearable?”

Truth snorted.

“Really? Single?” She hit a particularly sizable knot with a one-two combo from the top and side. It was extremely effective. Truth groaned and nodded.

“Damn. Well. Color me surprised.”

“Apparently, people care about things like "Looks " and "Personality,” and even “being around reliably.” I have none of those things. Working on it, though.”

“Eh? You seem to have a decent personality. And you aren’t a model, but, like, a decent six?”

Truth looked up sharply. “Six?”

“Decent six, yeah.” She nodded.

Truth did a fist pump. Cultivation, the one thing in his life that had never failed him, was coming through again. And hell, a couple more months and he would get promoted. Even a small step up the pyramid came with significant benefits. He wondered what the System had in store for him next.

The flight back was surreal. A private elevator descended from the First Class Lounge to the landing field, where a flying carpet took him and his tiny luggage directly to the giant spell bird that would be carrying him back to Harban. And it was giant. Roughly the shape of a goose, made of tens of thousands of talisman papers lacquered into feathers and “flesh,” stuffed with seats and storage and other useful amenities of upper-class travel. It was painted a beautiful off-white, with the long feathers at the tips of its wings painted a vivid red.

Truth walked into the bird and turned left. The private cabins were at the very front, where it was the quietest and the servants the most plentiful. The cabins were decorated with fabric the color of sand and gold. His cabin was marked with a tree made of hundreds of glowing triangles, swaying in a breeze only it could feel. On closer inspection, each little triangle held a tiny sprite, buzzing about inside of it.

The cabin itself had a single chair inside, and little else. The helpful servant informed him when he was ready to sleep, he should summon the staff for the turn-down service. The chair lay flat into a bed. The servant then pressed a glass of sparkling wine in his hands. Truth pressed it back and asked for juice. Despite the best efforts of the Army and the PMC, he never learned to drink. Every time he thought he’d try, he’d see the old man.

The seat was incredible. It felt like he was floating on a cloud. A scry ball was carefully concealed in a little table next to the chair. Truth was provided with offensively silky pajamas and moisturizer. He was so discombobulated by everything that he used both, rang a servant for a foot massage, drank his juice, and watched the scry.

The scry was always on in the barracks but he never really watched it. He always had the nagging sense that he should read more. Watching it was almost hallucinatory. The ads blew him away. The clothes were… incredible. He didn’t really want them, but it was the first time he really paid attention to regular, casual clothes. He realized he dressed like a bum off duty. His siblings were probably embarrassed to be seen with him.

Then there was the food. PRAGER BE PRAISED, THE FOOD! Noodles dripping with oil and sauce. Sandwiches of gargantuan scale, stuffed with meat. Even rare monster meat could be had.

Truth summoned the in-flight menu. He ordered the Crazni Boar Belly Royale. The tender, fatty cubes of the two-ton domesticated Crazni Boar, poached, almost candied, in a mix of red wine, fine herbs, and West Moon Stevia. The pork was imported at eye-watering expense from Crazni by the Shattervoid Clan, the Stevia (so much more refined than plebeian corn sugar) had to be grown in an orbital farm at just the right gravity. It was served on a bed of gemlike turquoise, peridot, and ruby grains of rice, mixed with vegetables grown by blind nuns in hidden mountain valleys (according to the menu).

It tasted like a riot in the orchestra pit at the symphony but in a good way. Truth previously held a low opinion of fancy food. Apparently, he had not eaten fancy enough. He could taste the money.

This would be his new hobby, Truth decided. This is how he would conquer his poverty tastebuds. He would become a foodie. Cooking was a necessary requirement for life, but thrill-eating was a hobby. A hobby meant that you were halfway to a personality, which, as a Six, meant that he was a quarter of a way to a date with an actual, real-life… person. At this point, he wasn’t prepared to be picky. The animal comfort of being near another warm body sounded painfully good right now.

Some kind of song contest came on. The singers and wannabe idols were gorgeous, of course. Reclining in fiendish luxury in silk pajamas that felt like liquid smoke, he briefly wondered if he could snag one for himself. Truth snorted and had a drink of juice (street value, 30 wen per 23 cl.) He was a C-9-U. You probably needed to be at least C-2-U to snag a starlet.

He watched most of them wipe out, crying prettily… but to his eye, sincerely. It looked like this contest really counted for them. The hidden desperation got a little more visible- winning a talent show wasn’t a “dream” for these women, it was their chance at a good life. And if they didn’t make it… well, he didn’t know what would happen. Ordinary jobs, Truth hoped. They would make a killing in sales. He shook his head. Then perked up. He was now a Six, minus whatever damage his personality did to his rating. Promising, promising!

I would be more upset about you watching scry but the way it’s firing up your greed and desire actually works for me. You hardly see them as human, do you? Not even notches on the bedpost, or even pets. Medals. You want to pin their weeping faces to your chest to show what a winner you are. That says a lot. It says… oh Yaldabaoth twist your nuts, I know there are better words for this! READ MORE BOOKS, you gibbering moron! Scumbag! Trash! Loser! You IDIOT! You are going to die poor and alone unless you KILL YOUR WAY TO POWER.

He changed channels. It was a show about fancy houses. He directly turned it off. Fantasy was one thing but land in Harban was not for sale at any price. Truth would live and die in rented apartments, and that suited him just fine. His mood dived. He wasn’t the sort to own property. He was a thug with a spell, killing for the biggest gang in town. All he could do was be the best killer he could be and get stronger. Not like he had the brains for anything else.

Truth got the turndown service and slept, then dove into a questionable mystery novel for the rest of the flight. Before landing, he changed into the provided suit. The shoes, with their hard leather soles, felt weird. Not… bad, exactly, but very odd. The suit was some lightweight wool, gray, wonderfully soft to the touch, and cut to flatter his already outstanding figure. The shirt was crisp white, with faint runic embroidery. It didn’t do anything, beyond advertising that the wearer was a serious mage. Or at least a seriously wealthy one.

“ALL HAIL THE CONQUERING HERO!” Shouted Sargent Murthey, with immense sarcasm. The rest of the department cheered with equal irony. He then settled down a little. “In all seriousness, that was an incredible op. Have you seen the news coverage? Your face is covered, of course, but you looked like death incarnate out there.” There was general nodding, pats on the back, and people got back to work.

Truth just blinked at him. “The… what now?”

“The news coverage, man! Everybody’s suits, the surveillance spirits, the spellbirds, the fucking orbital lifter, they were all recording all the time.” Murthey said.

“Yeah, obviously, but how the hell did the news get it? Wait, is this why the company sent me a wardrobe and this… suit?”

“Ding ding ding!” Murthey grinned. “They didn’t know if the media would scoop you up when you landed. Nobody knows your name or face, obviously, but just in case- There was a whole decoy operation waiting at the private terminal. Same with all the other drop mages from other branches. Why did you fly commercial, incidentally?”

“Um. I was told to?”

“Ah. Miscommunication. Non-Starbrite badged private jet operated by a subsidiary.” The Sargent shook his head. “You know they make me fly coach, right?”

Truth nodded slowly at that. “Yeah, everything did feel… kind of a lot.”

“I bet. Go talk to the Captain. You got some good news coming.”

“Alright. Hey Sarge, you didn’t say how the media learned about this?”

“It was a goddamn fortress assault thirty kilometers offshore, next to a major shipping lane. Everyone and their dog knew about it when the spells went off. Marketing pissed themselves with joy.” Murthey gave Truth an odd look. “Go see the Captain. Your life is about to get very strange.”

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!