Tomebound, a Litrpg Tower Climbing Adventure

"Swords, sacrifice, and the valor of a righteous heart.

With these we’ve written you the hero.

But should you find us a survivor of your crusade?

Well, then you’ll have your monster, too."

The Making of Kings, Volume One.

Heresy. Callam wracked his mind, but he couldn’t think of another reason for the markings he’d found inside the book. He knew of heretics. Or rather, he’d heard stories about them—of Rebelrousers that fought for Ruddite liberation, or of the Broken Covenant and their consort of freemen—but those were wishtales shared by orphans in hushed voices. They weren’t real things any more than miracles were. At least, that’s what Callam had believed. Now, he wasn’t so sure. If secret messages could be shared, it stood to reason that secret organizations could exist too.

Callam exhaled a long breath. His legs were starting to cramp, so he stood up from his place on the floor to stretch them out. He knew there was a chance he was making broth without bone: the square could be a square and not a coded message at all.

Yet the raised hairs on Callam’s neck told him otherwise. Without truly realizing it, he began to pace his narrow room, all the while fighting a growing urge to put the book away and pretend he’d never seen it—he knew the consequences of heresy. At the same time, Callam needed to find out if the other books held secret diagrams too, in the same way a gambler needed another toss of the dice.

More pressing than either impulse, though, was the unanswered question of why he’d found the book in the first place? It seemed too great a coincidence that he would accidentally stumble onto something like this in the Writ’s infirmary. Had the book been left behind by a patient or prisoner, in the hope that it would one day be found?

Or, even more daunting: had Helena or Mrs. Writ placed him here intentionally so that he might find it?

Minutes passed, yet Callam found himself no closer to any answers. Worse, his pacing had only rattled his nerves. He eventually resigned himself to the truth: he simply didn’t have enough information to understand what he’d discovered. That alone might have spurred him on to search through the rest of the books, if he’d not been driven by a more personal reason as well. He’d remembered Siela’s favorite stanza. She’d always told him that “those who leave riches unread become starving men.”

Feeling an ache deep within his chest, Callam plopped down on the corner of his cot. Then, he tried to steady himself. His sister had loved those words—she’d repeated them for courage when she’d tried new things, and for comfort when she’d failed.

If he knew her at all, she’d whispered that stanza to herself when she’d stepped up to Bind, her fingers fidgeting nervously as they’d so often done. It was only fitting, Callam decided, that he heed the stanza’s advice.

He walked over to the shelf, pulled free a stack of books, strewed them all across the bed, and began to pore over their pages. The first hardcover imparted no secrets; yet, on its last page, the second one did! Callam’s pulse quickened when he discovered that it hid four dots, just like the first book, though these were set out in the form of a rectangle, not a square.

He scoured through the rest of his stack, then the remaining books on the shelf.

Five volumes bore fruit in the end. Of them, the third book had six dots that formed a shape that looked like a honeycomb, and the fourth hid three dots in the outline of a triangle. The last book was unique in that it held only a single mark, right in the center of the final page. It was this book Callam picked up and inspected more closely, thinking it the key to the mystery. Part of the reason why was that of all the shapes, this was the only one that couldn’t be divided into a triangle. The other part of it was his gut—he’d always been innately good at solving riddles. Siela had often teased that his mind was one step outside the box and constantly trying to find its way back in.

Unfortunately, the book Callam was holding looked plenty ordinary. Perhaps it was a little thicker than the rest, or a tad duller in hue, but nothing significant enough to stand out. Still, Callam was not discouraged; over his years of thieving, he’d learned that valuables were best hidden in plain sight. After clearing some space on his now crowded bed, he laid the book flat and flipped it open to a page. Eagerly, he tried to read.

Words formed. Then, they slid right off the paper. Again.

With a small shake of his head, Callam turned the page. He was about to turn another when he noticed that the paper kept trying to curl back to where it had just been. Skipping ahead to a later section of the book, he watched as those pages did the same—they gradually flipped back until they settled in that very spot. It seemed to Callam that the book’s spine was acting as some sort of hinge, causing the pages to repeatedly fall open upon the same well-thumbed passage.

Convinced he was onto something, Callam flipped the hardcover over. He ran his fingers across the rugged spine—it felt completely normal to his untrained hands. When he closed the book, however, he did notice an unusual gap where the binding met the paper.

Enough to hide a message? Callam wondered, trying to wedge his pinky into the space. Something slightly sharp and cold pushed back. A weapon, maybe? That wouldn’t be unexpected. Rebels and heretics should know to hide the tools of their trade, after all.

No amount of jiggering could shake loose whatever hid in the book’s spine, so Callam was forced to do the one thing he’d been dreading. He cracked open the book, gripped a few of the middle pages, and tugged. Paper tore in his hands. Pages scattered when he grabbed more. He couldn’t help but feel a bit nauseous when he realized that Helena would think him a savage—there was no way to explain this desecration to her. Several torn pages later, Callam could at last see something silver peeking out from behind the pages. He ripped out the few remaining sheets that obscured his prize.

A split-second later, he dropped the book. His heart raced.

“By the Prophet...” The words escaped Callam’s mouth before he had a chance to hold them in. He cupped his mouth instinctively. Around him, the walls felt like they had eyes. His hands shook as he reached for what had been hidden in the book’s binding.

It can’t be…is that really a scripture Seedling? Callam wondered.

He’d recognized what it was at once: a thin piece of steel with a small tree inscribed onto it. The metal had grown at the slightest touch, and now formed a square plate slightly larger than a saucer. Ornaments of all shapes and sizes hung from the etching’s branches.

Every street kid—no, everyone—dreamed of finding a Seedling. They were challenges planted throughout the continent, each in the shape of a tree. The superstitious believed that Seedlings chose their keepers: that they tested mages with riddles until they found a perfect fit. Others swore that Seedlings appeared at random, fickle as a leaf in the wind.

Callam really only knew two things about them for certain. First, they heralded grand mages. The type stories were written about; the type every dockside orphan wished they could be. In fact, Callam couldn’t name a single hero that hadn’t nurtured a Seedling. Secondly, Seedlings awarded treasures to those who solved them. Treasures so valuable that the city threw a parade whenever a Seedling was found—real parades, the ones that orphans frequented because the food was free.

What should I do? he wondered, still unable to believe his eyes. As much as he hated the idea, the sensible thing to do would be to inform the Writs, and take whatever compensation they saw fit. After all, Seedlings were solved by mages, not by unbound.

Callam quickly shook that thought away. Before he could second guess himself, he touched the uppermost ornament—a small, glimmering oval etched into the steel’s surface.

Nothing happened.

He moved to touch the oval again. Then, just as mold rots its host, so too did the ornament wither and blacken the branch from which it hung. The Seedling grew hot in Callam’s hands as the branch began to smolder, and he almost let go of it in surprise. It grew hotter still.

“Poet’s hand!” Callam swore aloud, fighting the urge to cough. An acrid smell filled the room—all of the Seedling’s edges had started to melt and curl. Carefully, Callam shifted the steel between his palms until he’d placed it gently on the floor. What did I do wrong? he wondered, frantically searching the metal for any hints.

He found one immediately—while the ornaments appeared random, they were not. Callam noticed that several matched the shapes found in the back of the books: a square, rectangle, and triangle all dangled from the branches.

Can it be that simple? Callam thought. With no time to lose, he touched the small triangle.

The Seedling began to shake violently. The burning spread across the metal, closing in on the tree.

“No, no!” Callam whispered, urging himself to think faster. He felt his panic rising. There had to be a solution—and Poet willing, one that didn’t require magic. He knew it would include the shapes he’d found in the backs of the books.

Triangle, square, rectangle, a weird honeycomb pattern…and a dot. Each was made of at least three marks, except for that final one. It was the odd one out, and it had been the starting point to him finding the Seedling in the first place.

Inspiration struck. Callam tried to ignore the steel’s red glow as he hunted for anything that might pass for a small dot. There, he thought and pushed a spot on the metal’s surface, right below the tree—and exactly where he would expect a seed to be.

The steel sizzled against Callam’s skin. Focused as he was, he barely noticed the pain. Moments later, he released a held breath as the metal began to cool. A smile broke across his lips when golden lights emerged from the dot. They spiraled up the tree’s trunk, shimmering softly, looking every bit like the spellworked garlands that joyful children draped across the city come solstice.

Callam soaked in the sight, relieved his guess had been correct. Some of the tension eased from his neck.

Acting on a hunch, he touched the triangle shape next. The ornament’s surface rippled when pressed, emitting a soft, green light that danced along the Seedling’s branches. More importantly, this confirmed Callam’s theory: one dot, three dots, four dots, four dots, then six dots. An ascending pattern.

Callam paused when considering the rectangle and square. Both shapes were made of four dots, so he had no way of knowing which he should press first. He’d resigned himself to guessing, but then a solution came to mind. The Sisters taught that all squares were rectangles, but not all rectangles were squares. It stood to reason, then, that while the square ornament would count for both shapes, the rectangle would not.

Logically, it makes sense, Callam thought. But is it right? He felt more indecision than he cared to admit; he already thought of the Seedling as his and didn’t want to break it. Hesitantly, he touched the square ornament.

Silver swirls formed around the tree’s leaves. That just left the honeycomb. Callam pressed it with bated breath.

He heard the Seedling first—it sounded like a breeze stirring a windchime. That breeze built into a gust, and soon the books on his bed rustled and tore as a whirlwind formed within his room. Pages flew through the air and Callam’s hair was pushed flat against his brow. Seconds later, the Seedling began to sprout. Its steel trunk erupted upwards until it stretched from floor to ceiling, delicate strands of gold spreading from its roots to the very tips of its branches. Then, just as quickly as it had started, the storm settled. A canopy of crystals budded along the Seedling’s branches, bathing the room in a tapestry of warm light. Callam’s heart pounded as ornaments in the shapes of fruits emerged from the leaves, each shining with the brilliance of freshly polished silver.

He stood up, and eagerly grabbed one.