Slumrat Rising

Truth woke to the sounds of hammering outside the hotel. He had faintly hoped for more screaming from the System, but you can’t have everything. Worth investigating why his body could torture the System, but… it would just have to go on the big heap of “Things Truth Does Not Understand.” Sooner or later, the mountain would be worn down to nothing. That would be a good day.

Truth frowned. He was so tired; he didn’t cultivate yesterday. Of course, he could cultivate any time, and believing that cultivation worked better at night was pointless superstition. But he did kind of believe it. The sun was just too powerful, its rays too hot to be comfortable to cultivate with so directly. He hemmed and hawed for a while but eventually gave in. The urge to break through to Level Three was just too strong. Even if he didn’t have spells for his “slots,” he wanted the improved strength.

He breathed out, then in, then started moving through the forms. It was childish, he knew. Superstitious. He was a long way from the Level Zero who needed to physically move to do his cultivation. But he just liked it. It made him feel better. So he would do it, and the hell with people who disagreed.

It was a slow, steady flow of movements. The body stretched, compressed, and stretched again. The form was dancing, exulting, then humble and worshipful. Fierce and meek. The more he advanced, the less he strictly followed the forms of his childhood. The more he let the world talk to him, and he to it. The communion between the universe within him and the universe without, the billions of stars intertwining with the nine slowly being born within him.

The energy poured down, fierce and hot. They were on the equator, he dimly remembered, or just north of it. The power of the sun would be terribly strong here. Still, he could take the heat. Stretching and coiling, then stretching out again. The stellar rays raining down on him, refined along the Nine Worm Path and then poured like golden water into deep wells. The first aperture, the first star warming from red towards gold. The second star bigger, but still solidly orange. And now the third aperture still closed, the star not ignited. A toasty warm brown. Lightening, turning red as it mixed with the liquid gold of the sun.

The golden light wore away the barrier over the aperture, the star bursting into life. It rapidly swelled, becoming larger and larger. The vacuum formed by the empty aperture pulled in more stellar energy from the other apertures, which in turn pulled in more of the sun’s harsh stellar rays. Truth grunted as the rough equatorial rays fell faster and faster into him. Still, he could handle it. His body had been refined beyond a normal mage’s tolerance. His apertures were widening, strengthening. The stars were growing brighter. He kept cultivating until he just couldn’t stand it anymore.

BODY DEVELOPMENT SHEET

*Now Updated For Level Three! Congratulations on becoming a slightly larger ant!*

Stellar Ray Attunement- 90%*

Strength- 4.0*

Speed- 4.4*

Proprioception- 7.4*

Reflexes- 7.7*

Level Progression- 0%

Resistance to magic- Level 0: 25%, Level 1: 10%, Level 2: 5%, Level 3: 1%

Level three. You were somebody if you were level three. Maybe not world famous or anything, but… somebody. A senior ship fitter down at the shipyard, maybe. A departmental supervisor in a small department. He seemed to recall it was the minimum cultivation for some Army ranks in some countries.

In Starbrite, all the models were level three. He remembered that tidbit vividly.

Hey System. I haven’t been practicing the Mediatations that much. Isn’t that growth kind of fast? And the resistances seem kind of lopsided.

First, your stellar ray attunement is unnatural as hell. I mean, just deeply cursed. You are pulling in almost twice what a mage with a decent foundation should, and it’s not only not hurting you, it’s fueling everything you do. This leads me to, second, only the spell resistance is purely the Mediations. A big chunk of your growth is that stupid amount of stellar rays you soak up flooding into your body.

For most not-cursed people, this would result in mutation, liquefaction, becoming a farm for cursed, tumorous spirits, the usual. You just seem to get comprehensive, incremental improvements. Which, and you need to be very clear on this, is not something humans do.

All fucking around aside, this is not human shit. I don’t know what you are becoming, but, lucky you, you will be strong at the end of it.

Well. That kind of stole the joy from the moment. He thought a moment. There was nothing he could do to fix it. So, for now, accept it. Truth rolled his shoulders and walked into the bathroom. Time to take a good look at himself.

The last few days had been tiring, and it showed even after a good night’s sleep. Dark eyes, deep-set beneath strong brows. A straight nose, proportional to his strong face and lantern jaw. High cheekbones, and the face was just thin enough to make them pop. A mass of dark hair… wait. Hadn’t his hair been brown? Why was his hair black? His eyes were the same color as before. Why did his hair change?

He shrugged. It looked good on him. Then he looked a little closer at his eyes. They were the same soft brown as before but were now flecked with gold. Not just gold colored- actual shimmering motes of gold were visible in the iris. You really had to look closely, and the light had to hit them just right, but they were there. Odd. Very odd. He hadn’t noticed any major changes to his vision. Well, there was the improved low-light vision.

His body was… fantastic. He had always been lean, but he filled out and shot up between the Army food and the Nine Worm Path. He had been just a hair above average height, just a smidge, but he was still quite pleased about it.

Now, well. It wasn’t just a smidge. He wore his new 193cm with comfortable ease. Long of limb, with the fingers of a sculptor or a surgeon. His muscles were in perfect proportion- not too much or too little of anything. Each standing out like an anatomical diagram. He felt strong. He looked like the better class of God.

And yet the little whispers came into his mind.

You are lying to yourself.

Is that face really symmetrical? It looks off.

The worms made you lumpy.

Even worms think you are ugly.

Even worms don’t love you.

You didn’t earn this body.

You didn’t earn that face.

So what if your face got better, you're still boring.

Murderer.

That’s not the real you.

Your personality is still shit.

Nobody who remembers the real you loved you.

They didn’t even like you.

Your masters found you a bit useful. Good little rat.

You were never worthy of their love.

Just a thug. Now you aren’t even a thug with a spell.

You would ruin anyone you were with. You are poison.

Just like your Old Man. You are going to turn out just like your Old Man.

Just broken dreams and failure. Might as well pick up the bottle now.

I bet they sell schnapps here. Just fifteen wen a bottle. You can steal that much.

You don’t deserve to be with someone.

No one should have to put up with you. Suffer you.

You worked your whole life to sell your family into slavery.

It wasn’t Mom or Dad. The sib’s real enemy was you.

You are trash. Just another slumrat.

Squeak Squeak, little slumrat. See how far you can run. But you’ll never leave the slums. Never stop being a rat.

Truth collapsed onto the floor, clutching his head and trying to breathe. He knew the little whispers were wrong. He knew it. The little whispers were echoes of what the System did to him. But they came in his own voice! It was his own voice telling him these things!

He hugged his knees and shivered, trying to tell himself over and over again that it wasn’t real. That he was loved. That he could love and be loved. He didn’t betray the sibs. He was more than a monster of violence. He could be someone safe. That others could be safe for him. He was balled up on the cheap linoleum floor of the bathroom for a long while.

When he felt strong enough, he got into the shower and turned it as high as it would go. He used every second of his ten minutes of hot water. He dried himself, fixing his hair a little with his fingers. Not looking in the mirror.

He started to walk out of the bathroom, then stopped. He turned to face the mirror. Washed away the fog with a handful of water and looked himself dead in the eyes. “I am nothing, nothing, like my Dad. I can be any damn person I want to be. I am bigger than my fears. I am strong enough to love myself.” He took a deep breath. “And one day, I will be strong enough to save my family.”

Truth was feeling less than fully collected but was prepared to fake it. He negotiated with the desk clerk and won permission to stow his iron horse and luggage in the hotel for the rest of the day, even after check out. When asked why, he explained that, alas! He had lost his passport in the desert, and his flight home was from Siphios. Specifically the capital.

“Ah, you must love that beautiful country. Your Re’inyo is really not bad!” The clerk nodded enthusiastically.

“Thank you. I am practicing.” He enunciated carefully.

“Well, it’s a minor problem. As it happens, as long as you aren’t bringing weapons or drugs through the border, the guards don’t care. Honestly, most people here don’t have any sort of identity papers, and it’s not like the borders are particularly secure. If you don’t mind a big detour, you could go around the mountain and drive through the bush. Not fun, but no one would even look at you.”

Truth vividly remembered driving through “The bush.” “No, thank you. I really like roads. A lot. Very, very much.”

The clerk laughed. “Alright, alright, don’t worry. Ah! But you must speak to your embassy or consulate before getting on a flight. They will need papers there. Also,” Here the clerk coughed and looked awkward. “You will probably not wish to return to this side of the border. Our side is actually guarded quite strictly. You understand that papers are not an issue, but certain fees are imposed. As well as a careful inspection of goods. Many things are found to be “contraband.” You understand?”

Truth did. “How about leaving?”

“They did try to charge a fee for that, but everyone just went around. They kept trying to expand the guard post, and people just kept going further and further around. Eventually, they gave up. Not worth it, you see.”

Truth translated that from Ressilaud Free State into “A powerful local family has set up a stationary banditry point and called it a customs inspection, but this is the Free State, so what are you going to do about it?”

Truth knew exactly what he was going to do about it. He went out, had breakfast, bought a new map and a surprisingly comfortable white brimless round hat, stocked up on food, water, and toilet paper, then hit the road again.

The “Customs Station” offended Truth’s professional sensibilities. He had experience doing customs work for the Army and then later for Starbrite. Admittedly what he was doing for Starbrite was more “facilitating smuggling” than customs enforcement, but still. This was just bad. There was a roundabout on the main road, with two roads coming off of it to the north. One had a big sign saying “Kingdom of Siphios Customs Station.” The other had a large sign saying, “ONE WAY DO NOT ENTER.”

The customs station was just a booth in the middle of the road. They didn’t stop anyone. There was just a green haze that fell over people who passed by the booth. Presumably, it would trigger if the spell detected contraband. Truth had severed the functional parts of the fetish, turning it into a sort of ugly stick. He drove right on through.

The change was gradual. The city subtly got more colorful. The people were a little less guarded-looking. Fewer visible weapons, though they were certainly around. He could feel a higher level of cultivation. Almost everyone was Level Zero or One, but nobody acted like the Level Ones were anything precious or special. There were actual, honest to whoever cops. And they appeared to be doing useful work directing traffic. Incredible!

He laughed quietly to himself and pushed on down the road. It was slow going, as the traffic was still somewhere between “Bad” and “Actual Crimes.” Still, no rush. Then he got bored, decided it was a rush, actually, and tried to go around the traffic. This did not work. The traffic went wherever the hell it wanted, and sidewalks were more of a theoretical construct than a physical thing.

Truth finally lost patience and cut right onto a side street. Logically, cities follow a grid pattern, so he can just move up a parallel street. Well. It might have worked in Jeon. Six minutes later, Truth was impressively lost. He appeared to be in a residential neighborhood, enjoying above-average quantities of weird looks. Foreigners simply did not come here. There wasn’t much “here” here, even if you were a local.

He gave up. It was lunch-ish time. He saw some locals piling into a café, decided they probably knew what was good, and followed them in. No hats on these guys, or if they did have one, it was a very small, decorative one. Meh. Not for him.

He was waiting in line when a particularly disreputable-looking young man, one of the tiny hat brigade, tapped him on the shoulder. Truth looked at him. Did he need to squeeze past?

“Young man.” He looked no older than Truth. “Young man, I see a dark fortune upon you. You are doomed. The case is hopeless. But, I, alone, may save you. Young man, I do not mean to alarm you, but your life hangs by a thread.” He put his hand manfully on Truth’s shoulder, reaching up slightly. “Young man, you mustn't panic. But you are possessed!”

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