Tomebound, a Litrpg Tower Climbing Adventure

“Before the binding, there were free djinn,

Fire, ice, earth and wind,

The four elements, the makings of life,

He enthralled them all and trapped them within.

Verse, we branded him. Tried to best him,

But wherever we turned, she appeared.

In Lore he found his twin.”

A Manarji wishtale, passed from mother to son.

“Single file!” shouted a Scriptor in the distance.

“This way!” called another in an effort to corral the gathered unbound.

“To the Binding dais,” instructed a third. Hundreds followed the commands, a flurry of rustling robes and nervous conversations.

Nearest to Callam, the mage in yellow was speaking rapidly. She’d run up to him shortly after the top-five announcement and had explained that she was to guide him to the healers. Once the mages had finished repairing his hand, she’d added that he was expected at the center of the arena. There, they were to meet Niles, Lenora, and the other unbound. The rest of what she’d said had been lost on Callam—he was having trouble concentrating on anything beyond the nerves eating at his stomach.

Reality had finally set in.

Come binding, the majority here will fail. Normally, his top performance would have assured him a shorter indenturement term should he go to auction. However, the debt he owed the Writs for trespassing had already increased the price to his head.

“Each of you will advance to the podium in turn,” the mage said quickly. “I’m sure you already know all this,” she added, her expression softening, “and that everything’s overwhelming right now—the Poet knows I was terrified when it was my turn to bind.”

Callam nodded, a bit queasy.

“The books will come to you in a variety of hues. Lighter ones are more powerful than darker ones, but what really matters is the number of stars on their cover,” she explained as they walked. “You’re approved for tomes up to level two, so I’d look for one of those. I’d personally avoid any one stars—they’re the weakest of the bunch and will only grant access to the most basic magic. But…” she glanced around, “there is no shame in opting for one of that level if you get nervous. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, understand?”

Seeing she had his attention, she tossed him a reassuring smile. Then her voice dropped to a whisper as she said. “Promise me you won’t try for three- or four-star grimoires, Callam. They will kill you. It’s never worth it."

“I know.”

And he did. Siela had died after binding a three-star grimoire, and she’d scored a seven on the magic-aptitude test. He’d scored a four, so his best bet was to try and secure a level-two grimoire. If he managed it, he’d climb the tower to develop a few custom spells. With any luck, his Seedling would unlock a unique ability—then he’d earn enough to ensure the chapel’s commissary was always full. Maybe I’ll be able to afford the orphans some scripted grimoir—

“Alright,” the mage said, scrunching her nose as if checking a chore off some list. “I think that’s everything I have to tell you about Binding. Next, the auction, terrible business that…”

In this matter, Callam and the mage, whom he’d learned was called Arlie, arrived in the center of the arena. Throngs of unbound battled for space around the dais, packed so tightly that every step was a struggle. An impatient Arlie shouted at them to move aside, but her attempts to clear a path proved unsuccessful. Groups of auctioneers and bookmakers prowled, jostling with and hollering at the unbound in their way.

Like shepherds driving a flock. Gambling always peaked during binding, with bettors throwing coins at each failed or successful attempt. It made Callam sick. Most of Binding Day did.

The coliseum’s floor had undergone its usual transformation from flat to tiered: at its heart, an iron-and-stone chassis wound its way up from the earth until it stood a story high. A concave stage lay at the top of the structure, doused in the reds and yellows of the setting sun, while five basalt fingers extended from the elevated platform, their tips inked black. From left to right, they cast shadows over the gathered unbound. Callam knew that each finger symbolized a principle of literacy—reading, writing, doctrine, knowledge, and sorcery—tenets so vital to the people of Port Cardica that a dozen or more stanzas had been written in dedication to each of them.

“Riches unread make starving men,” he whispered. Siela’s favorite one.

“Oh, you memorized the stanzas as well?” Arlie spoke up. “My tutor’s favorite was ‘Discipline begins where doctrine ends.’ The most direct of them all, I think, just like her. Forget a line and that witch would bring out a spoon. My brother joked that if we forgot it twice, she’d bring out the kni—”

“Silence in the presence of the elders!” commanded a deep voice. A hush fell over the crowd. The seven Scriptors from the announcement ceremony approached the foot of the dais, tome and staff in hand, and then climbed the spiraling chassis to its peak.

“Today, we’ve seen the struggles of man. The frailties and triumphs of a society without writing,” the old lady said as she reached the front of the stage. “The Gods made us human—this is true. But it is the book that builds us in their image. Grimoires remove our barbarity. They give us power over history and over scripture.”

Over people too, Callam thought grimly.

“Shortly, the blessed among you will join our ranks. You will learn grand magics, face great trials, and create the very miracles others pray to… Yet remember, power begets responsibility. Responsibility to our nation, to its walls, and to its people. Do not forget your duty in your rush to rule over others. Heavy is the head that wears the mitron.”

With a turn, the oldest Scriptor found her place in a corner of the stage. One by one the remaining six approached and said their parts, Callam growing more impatient with each passing minute.

“… fated is he who takes the ink! Fated are we who oversee this rite! By the Prophet’s will and by his might, may you Bind!” concluded the last of them. A thunderous clap resonated through the arena as seven wood staffs hit stone in unison. Cracks broke in the binding chassis, a sense of power swelled at its base, and the thousands watching took a collective breath.

This is it! Callam's stomach was a knot of nerves, yet even he was excited. He’d always hated Binding Day, but this part…

This part felt like magic.

Callam heard the books first, a fluttering of open pages and flapping covers. Their melody was like birdsong: soft, sweet, with notes that touched the soul. He saw them next, the grand flocks arriving from the forever libraries—from the Roots of the Seekers Tower where all knowledge was kept. Wave after wave painted the sky in a tapestry of blues, green, reds, and golds, until ten thousand books or more had formed a dome in the heavens itself.

The Scriptors did not dawdle. “Zallorin, Queenskin, rise!” they shouted. Around Callam, the crowds of unbound parted to let the royal boy pass; Arlie took advantage, catching Callam’s eye and pointing to the rest of the top five, who were already near the dais. She shooed him forward.

“Great tomes of the library! Find here the jewel of our youth!” bellowed the Scriptors in unison. At their heralding, Zallorin began his climb of the chassis, his shoulders set and features proud. Even at a distance, he looked regal, and Callam knew that anyone in the stands with a spellworked glass would be zoomed in on the performance.

The boy reached the platform, and a small podium grew from the stone to meet him.

“Bind him!” The chant began with the eldest Scriptor, and soon was taken up by the crowd. “Bind him so he might read the stories of our forefathers! Bind him so he might correct the past!" the Scriptors' continued, while the crowd echoed the refrain. Callam felt the power in those words as he elbowed his way to the final five. Maneuvering through unbound with eyes to the sky proved difficult—no one wanted to miss a thing.

“Bind him! Bind him so he might know doctrine. So he might rule and be ruled!”

Zallorin's hands were in the air, his face reverent. The tomes were roused by the call; in a spiral of colors they migrated from the heavens to the podium. Callam spotted sapphire, emeralds, and the odd crimson among them, but the books were too far away for him to identify any starmarks. Light caught on the pages of the grimoires as they descended, and suddenly their ink took flight—ribbons of pigment whirled and weaved from the books, the images of the stories they shared coming to life.

A small soldier upon a horse, mid charge; twin dragons on hind-legs spitting fire; an army at war, fighting for lost love; and a thousand more wishtales danced along the ink as it arched its way toward the boy. Some promised grand adventures, knowledge, and the pleasure of debating with those of dissenting thought. Others rang of the occult, of the darkness that lies beyond.

Together, there was harmony.

“Bind him,” Callam found himself whispering as he reached the others in the final five. Part of him was overcome by the spectacle—reminded there was power in words and warmth in magic.

The other part of him was cold. Memories of his sister on that stand still haunted him.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” a quiet voice said to his right. There stood Lenora, her ocean blue eyes a mirror of the skies.

Callam’s voice caught in his throat. Niles had no such reservations. “His victory is already written, girl,” the boy spat. “There is no beauty in that.”

All the frustration Callam had felt earlier came back in force. He’d tried to play it by the rules during their bout—tried to avoid any low blow that might get him disqualified, but his reluctance to play dirty had emboldened the boy.

Turning, Callam snarled, “You claimed my win wasn’t written, remember? Or was that your sister, when she dug her poison into me?” Hypocrite.

“Blame the parables, fool. They spoke our destinies before we were—”

“Shhh!” hissed a girl in a heavy northern accent. “De books are making der choice!”

She was right, the books were singing their final song. The hundreds circling had turned to ten, then to five, as more and more determined themselves not a fit. With a playful twirl, another two-star withdrew its ink and streaked away into dusk. Four remained in front of the dais: a sapphire, an emerald, an onyx, and a crimson grimoire. Three stars glowed on each cover, pulsing with an otherworldly light.

“The books have spoken, child. Four have judged you worthy today. One more than the norm,” said the eldest Scriptor. There was an undertone to her voice that Callam couldn’t immediately place. It reminded him of the way the Sisters’ spoke whenever an orphan fell short of the required collections.

It’s as if she expected better and is disappointed.

Zallorin's didn’t seem to notice. Stretching out a hand, the royal boy made his choice. Bright-red ink rippled over tan skin. A blink later, the royal let out a harrowing scream.

Hi everyone! Know a lot of people don't read end cards, so adding a little note here! Many of you have commented that you love the story, but that its hard to get lost in a world with only once-a-week updates. As a result, a month ago I started moving towards two times a week--and now I'm happy to announce that starting Monday you can expect two chapters a week, each 1,500 words to 2,000. My goal is to keep this schedule until Binding is over, and hopefully pick it up further from there!